


and it's a long way up when you hit the ground

by whimsicality



Category: Abrahamic Religions, Captain America (Movies), Christian Lore, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Epic, F/F, F/M, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Multi, Nothing is Sacred, Pepper as Eve, Religion, Romance, Satan is the good guy, Steve as Michael, Tony Fucking Stark, Tony as Satan, War, Women Being Awesome, see notes for trigger warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicality/pseuds/whimsicality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer envied man, Eve tempted Adam, and Michael cast Lucifer out of heaven. Right? </p><p>Stop. Start over.</p><p>Lucifer envied man, Eve chose freedom, and Michael loved Lucifer. Closer.</p><p>Or Tony/Pepper/Steve throughout the ages, the Tony as Satan story you never knew you wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**and what was right is wrong** _

 

Michael comes to rest on the ground, glory fading beneath a dull shell that will not blind the creatures of the Garden. The Father is occupied elsewhere, planning something he has not shared with his angels. Not even Michael. He has resisted his curiosity about The Father’s latest creation, but he had sensed Lucifer’s presence in the Garden, on the Earth, and had not been able to resist following.

He has never been able to resist that.

Walking through the trees, he approaches the sound of water striking sand. Glints of light catch his eyes and he smiles. Even dimmed, Lucifer is a shining star – bright and achingly beautiful.

He is standing on the white sand, blue water swirling about his ankles, his perfect face staring into the sun as it hangs low on the horizon. Michael joins him and wonders what the water feels like to those blessed with such perception.

They stand, shoulder to shoulder, as the sun descends, until only a sliver of gold hovers above the endless expanse of water, reflecting off the matching gold in Lucifer’s eyes. Michael raises a hand, trailing it across the sharp edge of Lucifer’s cheekbone, and waits for him to speak.

“The Father has never created such a place before,” Lucifer says, his ringing voice reduced to a silver whisper as he turns his face into Michael’s caress. “He has never entered this realm.”

Michael nods, but does not speak. He knows better than to say that it is not their place to question The Father’s will. Nor is he sure he wishes to say such a thing, however true it is. Lucifer’s words are also truth. The realm of mortals has always been beyond their concern, and The Father’s. Until now.

“Has He spoken to you of His plans?” Lucifer asks, sparks flickering on the surfaces of his eyes as he finally meets Michael’s gaze.

Michael shakes his head, weighing his words. “No, He keeps His own counsel. Although I would not care to say that none of The Others have guessed His intent.”

Lucifer hums and nods slowly, his generous mouth slanting upwards into a wry smirk. “They will certainly not confide in us.” Michael smiles agreement and Lucifer sighs, his gaze drifting back to the sky, now studded with the light of a thousand stars, none as beautiful as the one looking up at them. “I worry,” he confesses, the shadow of his wings drawing tight around him.

Michael stretches his own wings around both of them and steps closer, until the sparks swirling around Lucifer’s fingers begin to dance around his own. “What do you See?”

There is a breath of silence and then Lucifer’s hand is burning against his arm, his eyes black and fathomless. “Death.”

~

Eve walks through the Garden, savoring the rich, soft earth squishing between her toes. Adam is slumbering but she is restless. Their day, the same as all their other days, was peaceful and pleasant. She has no cares, no wants that are not met, but sleep evades her. The quiet rustlings of the creatures who share their home do not soothe her the way they normally do and her feet wander off their usual paths, toward the great sea that borders the westernmost side of the Garden.

Before she reaches the edge of the trees, she catches a glimpse of movement and stops. She does not wish to disturb whatever animals have sought the coolness of the waves and carefully steps forward, peering through the foliage with curiosity she cannot quell.

Her hand rises to her mouth unbidden as the fragmented images before her resolve into one dazzling whole. Stunned, she feels a wave of dizziness wash over her. She and Adam are the only ones of their kind. The Father made this clear when He created her. But the two beings standing on the beach _look_ like them. Only so much more. They are beautiful in a way she can hardly comprehend, their heads tilted toward each other in a moment of quiet intimacy, and her chest aches with emotions she does not have names for.

Who are they?

She shifts unconsciously forward and a leaf crackles beneath her feet. Before she can even see if they noticed she is turning to flee, afraid for the first time in her life. Not of the beautiful strangers, but of the things the sight of them has awakened within her.

Adam is still sleeping when she returns to his side and she curls up on the grass beside him, watching his chest rise and fall, until dawn breaks. When his eyes flutter open and he smiles at her, she forces herself to smile back and lets him pull her in for a kiss before they begin their peaceful and pleasant day.

She ignores her restlessness that night and matches her breathing to Adam’s until she falls asleep. Until the dreams come.

The Garden no longer seems quite so peaceful and pleasant and she does not know what it means.

In the morning, Adam asks her what she wants to do and she demurs to his preference, words stuck in her throat. She does not know what she wants and she is still afraid.

But she is also desperately curious.

Curious enough to listen when an unexpected voice speaks to her with questions she has not dared to ask herself.

The serpent’s words wash over her, white noise as she stares at the bright red fruit, gleaming with secrets in the afternoon sun. She was created for the pleasure of Adam, that is her purpose. Like the animals who live in the garden with them, her days are filled with delicious food, lovely sights, and the companionship of her mate, whose body provided the seed of her existence.

She should want for nothing, she has known nothing but perfection. But she does. However wrong it is, she finds herself _wanting_. Wanting what, she does not know, although she remembers strange but familiar beauty glimpsed in moonlight with a guilty flush. Perhaps these lush fruits, forbidden even to touch, will hold the answers to the emptiness of her existence.

As the sweet flesh of the fruit dissolves on her tongue, she knows. She knows that her daughters, for endless millennia, will be blamed for her choices, just as Adam will blame her. She knows they will suffer and know unimaginable pain; that they will be punished and killed for the simple crime of being her descendants, the great temptress who only wanted to _know_.

And she knows they will have choices. That many of her daughters will create lives for themselves, not for the pleasure of men or gods, and she knows it is worth it.

Before her eyes, the serpent becomes a shining figure of a man, one of the two she had spied upon, and his face is wrought with a pain and pleasure to match hers. “Do you See?” he asks.

She sees, many things, not least of them freedom, and nods. “I See.”

~

Michael cuts through the air, fierce desperation consuming him. He _must_ reach Lucifer first. The Father is furious, more furious than He has been in all the ages of Michael’s existence, and he is deeply afraid of what that anger will mean for Lucifer.

Lucifer is standing at the edge of the water, his wings flared and his shoulders unbowed with the burden that has been weighing them down since The Father first revealed Adam to them. Even in the grips of terror, Michael cannot help but drink in the sight of his beauty and strength.

The thought of those things destroyed, struck down by their Creator, makes him falter, falling to the sand beside Lucifer as pain overwhelms him for the first time in centuries. Lucifer looms over him, eyes wide with concern as his graceful hands pull Michael to his feet.

“ _Why?_ ” Michael asks, gripping Lucifer’s shoulders as flames lick the surface of his skin, his control undone.

Lucifer pales, his skin shining as his own power rises to press against Michael’s, a dance that has never been anything but pleasure, not until now. “It was _wrong_. What He did. You know it was. Mortals are not meant to be toys for the likes of us.”

Michael sags in Lucifer’s hold, unable to deny the truth of his words. “He will destroy you,” he says with quiet, painful certainty. “You have taken away every measure of control He has over this world and for that He will take away your very existence.”

Lucifer’s wings wrap around him, his hands gentle against Michael’s face. “It was worth it. You would have done the same, once your nobility overrode your loyalty.”

Michael wants to shake his head, wants to deny he is capable of Lucifer’s unflinching bravery, but presses their mouths together instead, feeling the burn of Lucifer’s soul and wishing he could feel his skin as well.

The weight of The Father falls upon them before another word can be spoken and Michael screams as Lucifer is wrenched away from him, his glorious wings torn to shreds by the force of The Father’s voice.

He lunges forward and places himself between Lucifer and The Father, glaring into the light even as it sears his flesh. “I will not let you destroy him!”

Laughter sends him to his knees, pain lancing through him as he continues to shelter Lucifer’s broken body with his own. “You see what you have done, Lucifer? You have corrupted the Captain of my Host. You have taken my Sword along with my Earth.”

“Not your Earth,” Lucifer gasps out and Michael screams again as light pierces through them, incinerating their bodies until only their souls, scorched and battered, remain.

“You will live and die with your precious mortals, bear witness to every moment of suffering your interference will cause. You will not know peace, and neither will they.” The Father’s voice rings with truth and the touch of His regard is agony. “You should have paid more attention to your visions, Lucifer – you are the Bringer of Death.”

The light grows until there is nothing else, not even Lucifer by his side, and Michael falls.

He does not feel it when he hits the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, hi. Yeah. This happened. It will continue to happen. Coming up next we'll even get a Tony POV, as the three of them start to reincarnate, and occasionally find each other. End goal is Avengers and the three of them.
> 
> The chapter title is in reference to the song 'Bleeding Out' by Imagine Dragons.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am attempting to be as historically accurate as possible with this fic (not an easy proposition given that this entire chapter is set approximately 2000 years before written languages existed) and for most of human history, in most places, life sucked for women and anyone viewed as weak or different. So please, consider this a very broad **trigger** warning for sexism, forced marriage (and at an age we would consider too young in modern western culture), lack of consent, negative views towards physical disability, violence, death, etc. 
> 
> I do not intend to be graphic in this fic with the darker things, and will label chapters very clearly if that changes, but there are going to be upsetting and disturbing themes and events due to the time periods the story takes place in.
> 
> Also, the characters themselves may think/express things I do not agree with, based on their own knowledge/bias.

**in a million multi-colored lies**

Eve is more numb than surprised when she and Adam are banished from the Garden and they discover they are far from the only humans on Earth. What is truth and what is lie has become so tangled that she can hardly give credence to either.

She has no regrets.

Adam has not forgiven her for offering him freedom, but he does not know how to not love her and so they form a new life among the other humans, who accept them for their health and strength despite their oddities. No longer so peaceful and pleasant, instead their days are painful, hard, and viscerally real.

She bears him two children, a son and a daughter, and whispers to them of choices while their father and the other villagers sleep in their homes of mud brick. Her son works on the maintenance and creation of water channels with his father and her daughter joins her in the fields, working to bring life from the Earth that once favored her with such abundance.

The others find her strange, stranger even than Adam who, after the initial shock, faded into their new world with ease. But she Sees, Sees things no one else does, and it sets her apart, whispered words trailing after her when she fetches water and teaches her daughter how to grind seeds into the fine powder they use for cooking.

She dreams, every night, of gods and knowledge and blazing comets in the sky, and wakes with inhuman screams ringing in her ears.

She is still curious, but she is no longer afraid.

Adam dies in one of the fevers that comes with the spring flooding and her daughter nearly follows. Eve proves to be the most adept at treating the sick and soon the whispers take on an air of reverence. She is still strange, but she is useful. Her son is taken in by one of the other men and their place in the village is not questioned, the fruits of her and her children’s labor enough to support them along with small gifts that occasionally appear at their doorstep.

Eve dies as the oldest person in the village, surviving long enough to hold her son’s daughter on her knee and to give her blessing to her daughter’s union to a man who will not hurt her.

She dies content.

She awakens with a hearty scream and intense disorientation that does not fade until she is old enough to walk. She is a quiet and strange child, the little girl whose sky-colored eyes never miss a thing, and in this life when the fevers come she is chosen as a sacrifice to the gods.

She dies choking on brackish river water.

When she awakens again, she does not scream. The words she learns are strange to her ears at first and her eyes are dark and slanted. She learns how to create clay vessels at her mother’s knee and enjoys the way the squishy earth is shaped into items of graceful use. She uses a sharp stone to carve designs into the clay before it is placed into the sand to harden and helps her mother prepare rice for their evening meal.

She is better at concealing her strangeness in this life and she is careful not to See unless she is safely alone. She makes no noise when she dreams and her family views her with the distant affection all daughters receive.

Two summers after her first bleeding, she is given to one of the most successful hunters in their village. He is less gentle than Adam and she feels anger, hot and bitter, for the first time since The Father cast them out of the Garden for the crime of choice.

She wishes she’d been born a boy. And then, fiercely angry again, wishes that being born a girl did not mean being born without choices.

Eventually she bears him a son and is both glad and sad when a daughter does not follow. She has not forgotten her first choice, or the things she Saw, but she knows now that she is not to blame for the lot of women in this world, so much bigger than she ever dreamed.

Lessened guilt does not equate to lessened pain and at night she weeps for all her daughters, born or not.

During the day she teaches her son humility when his father is not around, and whispers the same lessons over his bed that she taught her first children: how to see and how to choose.

She dies after cutting her arm while gutting fish and does not mourn the life she lived.

In her next life, she finds herself in the same village she lived in as Eve, grown larger and more populated. There is a temple in the center of what is now nearly a city, stacked rooms of carefully crafted mud bricks, and the small water channels have become larger canals, irrigating the fields. The reed huts of the fisher people and the tents of the goatherders have grown in number as well and a more organized trade has sprung up.

She is with her mother in the square by the temple where people bring their excess goods for barter when she sees him and her hands clench against the rough fabric of her dress.

He is less than he was, but more than those around him, and still beautiful, light flickering at the edges of her vision in the places no one else can See.

His head turns as he leads a string of goats between two women with baskets of grain and their eyes catch and lock. Her mind quails with the things she Sees and she makes another choice.

When the world will not give you choices, sometimes one must create them.

~

It takes two lives for Michael to accept the loss of his wings, to adapt to his fragile, mortal flesh. He cannot and will not accept the loss of Lucifer, who has been by his side for more ages than humans have existed in their present form.

He wanders, living off the land and seeking out every settlement he can find for a hint of the sparks that cannot have burned out entirely. Not all such places are friendly to a stranger, and his third and fourth lives end in violence he cannot bring himself to reciprocate.

He has spent the entirety of his existence as The Father’s Sword, the Captain of His Host in the wars waged against The Others. He is not skilled at violence, he _is_ violence, and he will not use what he is against mortals who are mere children in their understanding of the world. Children who are only seeking to protect what is theirs.

Lucifer was right. He would have fought for the freedom of the mortals The Father created and enchanted, had Lucifer not found a way to do so first.

The truth of that does not make his absence any easier to bear.

He finds Eve first and is furious at The Father all over again for punishing her too.

There is a reason Lucifer could not stand what The Father had done. Free will is never so appreciated as by those who have never had it.

She is younger than he is, although not by much, and hovering in her mother’s shadow as the woman bargains for a basket of fish. When their gazes meet, a surge of recognition and renewed grief leaves him breathless.

She watches as he carefully approaches, and steps away from her mother so they will not be overheard. Her eyes are dark in this life, filled with shadows that make him ache all over again, and they hold his with startling intensity when she speaks. “I am not sorry.”

It surprises a chuckle out of him and he shakes his head, admiration and unexpected joy curving his mouth. “I am glad.”

She blinks and gives him a slow, cautious smile. “Is he,” she hesitates and lifts one shoulder in a wordless gesture of curiosity.

He lowers his head, heart seizing at the reminder of the empty space between them. “I have not found him. Yet.”

She frowns but cannot speak again, her mother drawing her away with a suspicious glance at the tall stranger. He watches her go and for the first time since he fell, contemplates staying in one place.

Loneliness is but one of the new sensations he has experienced since gaining a mortal form, but it cuts the deepest. The woman who chose freedom is something familiar, a reminder of what he lost and why. The rewards as well as the cost. Her bravery is undeniable, as bright and shining as Lucifer’s, and he is overcome with a desire to know what she has become in this world outside The Father’s carefully crafted bubble.

Eve sharing their fate is a cruelty that should not be. But she does not seem to be mourning the cost of her decision and for Lucifer’s sake, if not his own, he resolves to learn the truth of who she has chosen to be in the face of others’ actions. If she will let him.

He does not expect her to approach him the next time their paths cross in the Temple square and ask him to barter with his parents for her.

“Why do you wish this?” he asks, taken aback by the offer of what is essentially slavery, even if he would never treat her as such. Neither of them deserve to ever be slaves again.

Some part of him is still surprised she even recognized him; unlike Lucifer he never spoke with her, and she has no reason to trust him other than his association with the first being to give her a choice.

Her lips curl downwards. “You will not expect me to perform my womanly duties. Will you?"

Her eyes are still penetrating and he shakes his head, saddened and angered. What Lucifer offered changed her, more than he had realized. Or perhaps she was different all along, perhaps The Father miscalculated when He sought to create obedient sheep in order to work His will on the mortal realm. Mortals have always been trickier to mold; it is why The Father and others like Him play their game in other realms.

Either way, this life is ill suited to one with her knowledge, and if he can help ease it, he will.

“What will your father accept for your bride price?”

She looks faintly surprised at his acceptance, then smiles in pleasure. “A breeding pair of goats will raise his status within our tribe.”

He returns her smile and nods. It will also raise hers, to be worthy of the price. “Where can I find your father when I have them?”

“Meet me here in three days; I will bring you to him,” she says, and turns to go, casting one last smile over her shoulder.

He watches her walk away and wonders at his purpose. Mortals have choices, but they are young, this race, and they do not appreciate the gravity of that ability, nor the breadth of the freedom they hold. They use those choices to enslave each other, to play at being gods, even as they fear invisible forces.

He has never had so many choices before and he finds himself at a loss as to what to do with them. Finding Lucifer has been his only goal. It is still what he wants, more than he has ever wanted anything. But perhaps it is time to make other plans. To utilize the potential of his mortal form, a potential The Father both envied and underestimated.

Turning away, he makes his way back to the tents of his tribe to arrange for a pair of goats, the memory of gold eyes and unbowed shoulders driving him forward. It is past time he became more than a weapon, or a ghost.

Three days later he has traded labor and the fruits of several successful hunts for the right to trade away two of the tribe’s precious breeding stock and is following Puabi (“I am not Eve, not anymore,”) toward her home.

Her father is surprised by his offer, and seems reluctant at first to trade his daughter (“so strong, so healthy”) away to a goatherder, but he cannot resist the lure of milk and the ability to breed his own livestock, something no one else in their tribe has, and so agrees while her mother watches with a flat mouth and sad eyes.

Puabi gathers her clothes, a basket of weaving, and a basket of grain her mother pushes into his hands, and they leave. She never looks back.

He leads her to his tent and shows her inside under the intent and curious gazes of his people. She looks around the tent, taking in the pallet of reeds covered in loose hides he sleeps on, the spear and various tools, the clay vessel with water, and various other items he had never realized were so intrinsic to mortal life, and sets down her belongings in a clear corner before turning to face him, her hands on her hips. “What do I call you?”

Blinking, he almost laughs, realizing that she has never known his name: any of them. Yet here they are, bound together for the duration of this lifespan, however long it lasts. He thinks Lucifer would laugh, if he was here. “I am Naram in this life.”

She nods and he is once again struck by how indescribably brave she is, to come here with him, a man she does not know. He wants to tell her this, but does not know how she would respond so holds his tongue. “I can make another pallet,” he offers instead and she smiles at him in clear amusement.

“It is better to share warmth. You will not do anything I do not want you to do.”

He smiles back, a different kind of warmth flaring in his chest at her certainty. “As you say, Puabi.”

She grins, her face lighting up as some tension he had not noticed flows out of her. “Now show me to your cooking fire, so your people may see your new wife and I may make us dinner.”

He bows his head in obedience and leads her out of the tent with a wide smile upon his face that sets his people to whispering, one old woman chuckling to herself as she weaves in front of her son’s tent. He thinks this life will have more happiness than his last four.

He is not wrong.

They never lie together and his people are disappointed by the lack of children. Only one dares to suggest divorcing Puabi and his response is harsh enough to prevent any such words in the future.

During the day she joins the other women of his tribe in weaving, grinding grain into flour, cooking, and caring for the children, while he spends his time with the other men, caring for the goats, hunting, fishing, and trading with the other tribes. At night they teach each other languages never spoken by the people of their city, and speak of the history he has witnessed. She is endlessly curious and he finds a new peace in his memories as he speaks of his life before the fall.

When he wakes with Lucifer’s name on his lips, she offers silent comfort, and when her eyes go sad and distant while watching the women and children of the tribe, he gives her stories to take her mind away.

She dies first and missing her is an unwelcome pain. As is the thought of her in a new life, alone, at the mercies of a world that does not respect choices, and he knows he will be forever searching for not one but two souls as he lives and dies again and again.

He dies of one of the many illnesses that sweep the plains and only wishes it was swifter. When consciousness returns, he is in a round hut made of reeds and mud. His skin is dark, darker than the earth, and his people live on the banks of a great river.

His legs are twisted and he hears his parents whisper of giving him to the river and praying for a stronger son.

He is ashamed that part of him wishes they would, so he might be born again in a body that is not an enemy. He had felt weak in his first mortal body, his wings and his power gaping losses in his soul, but he has never felt so helpless than when trapped as a crippled child who can barely drag himself to relieve his bodily needs.

But he remembers the bravery of a woman who created choices in a world with none and when his parents choose to keep him, he finds ways to make himself useful. His arms are strong, they bear most of his weight when he needs to move, and his fingers are deft. He is soon skilled at weaving, and shaping clay into vessels, and while his parents pray for a stronger son (they are eventually blessed with a strong daughter instead and he ignores the disappointment in their eyes and makes her the center of his world,) they no longer speak of sacrifices.

He still dies young. The river does not flood one year and when the crops wither, he is one of those who is not fed. He does not resent this; he has been of use, but he cannot provide for the tribe as others can, and he will be buried in the village with a clay figurine and other offerings rather than slipped into the river with other children they wish to forget.

The world when he wakes is cold, colder than he has ever been, but he is strong again and he is not ashamed of the fierce joy he finds in running as his tribe moves across frozen plains in search of game.

Joy that is more than eclipsed when he crests a snow covered hill and finds Lucifer on the other side.

~

His first life is short and ends in violence, his tongue running away from him before he remembers that he is no longer merely hiding beneath this dull human shell but actually bound to it. His second is shorter and ends in hunger when he is shunned from the tribe he was born to and fails to adapt to the desert on his own. His third he ends by his own hand rather than obtaining manhood by killing a member of the village they are feuding with.

He does not remember his fourth and fifth lives. Or at least, that’s what he will say when asked.

His sixth, oh in his sixth he finds _him_ again, and for the first time since his wings were burned away by The Father’s fury, he feels sparks well within his breast.

He is hunting with the other boys of his tribe, collecting game for their stores before the true winter storms make food gathering dangerous if not lethal. He has split away from the others, following the faint traces of hooved tracks in the snow, when his neck prickles with the sensation of being watched. Raising his head, he sees an unfamiliar figure. There are no other tribes currently settled in the area and for a moment his stomach sinks at the thought of a battle for territory.

The wars he fought in The Father’s name are distant and unreal, and killing as a mortal is horrific on many levels.

His eyes meet the curious gaze of the watcher, a boy about his age, and his breath catches in his throat as phantom flames lick the edges of his memories. Before he even realizes he’s moving he’s halfway across the distance between them, something loud and bright and fierce thrumming beneath his skin.

Michael is right there, brown hands wrapped around his arms and unfamiliar dark eyes burning into him, and Lucifer sags, dragging them both to the snow as he sinks into the other man’s embrace, eyes stinging with the first tears he has ever shed.

“I thought He would keep us apart,” he murmurs against Michael’s hide covered chest and Michael’s arms tighten around him like protective metal bands.

“He does not have power over this world, over us. Not anymore.” Michael’s words are a vow, a plea, and Lucifer digs his fingers into the other man’s back and silently makes the same oath. The Father will not break them; this punishment will not be the end of who they were, or who they will become.

He lifts his head, seeking Michael’s mouth with his own. When their lips meet, it is rough and warm and like nothing he has felt before. Their love has burned brightly for longer than humans have walked the Earth, but their bodies Before were not made for such things – they had been weapons, vessels of power, their desires limited by their purpose.

But these bodies, these frail, mortal structures, can feel so much, can touch and taste and hold. They are beautiful in their very lack of purpose, their lack of fate, and the feel of Michael’s soft hair beneath his fingers in his undoing.

They are both shaking, and not with cold, and Michael is cradling him like he is something fragile and precious that will break if he is not careful. Lucifer bites his lip and pushes him down into the snow, swallowing Michael’s laugh as his grip becomes tight enough to bruise. This is real. _He_ is real, and he wants every moment branded into his flesh.

Melted snow seeping into the fur lining of their clothes eventually forces them to stand, to reluctantly disentangle their limbs, although their hands remained locked, fingers intertwining in a hold Lucifer needs so he will not float away into the abyss. In silent accord they turn away from the paths they both took to this place and head further into the wilderness, far from both of their peoples, who will mourn but accept the loss as nature’s cost.

They keep moving until the growing dark of the sky hinders their progress. Together, they hollow out a small mound beneath the snow, carefully turning and layering the drifts so the roof will not collapse on them. Lucifer is only carrying his spear, a bone knife, and some food, but Michael has a full pack of food, tools, and extra hides, which they use to line the bottom of their shelter. They share berries and dried meat and curl together for warmth, their damp clothes set aside to be dried in the morning when they can build a fire.

They touch each other slowly at first, languidly enjoying the warm silk of skin beneath fingertips that have never felt so sensitive. Michael’s lips against the hollow of his throat are like a brand, like the fire the other man wielded in another life, and the unconscious motion of their bodies grows more frenetic, both seeking friction with an instinctual ache. Their mouths meet again, hot and slick, and they are both surprised when release comes, shuddering against each other with muffled groans.

After the euphoria has begun to fade, Lucifer looks down between their sweat-kissed bodies and makes a face. “Humans are so messy,” he mutters and Michael laughs, dragging his chin up for another kiss.

“It is worth the mess,” Michael says, humor fading into something warm and solemn and Lucifer kisses him again, knowing he means more than just the pleasure they shared, knowing he means Lucifer himself and the price they are paying for his actions.

They clean themselves with melted snow, the cold an unpleasant shock after the warmth of their activities, and curl up again, limbs intertwined in a lazy sprawl as sleep drags them under.

Lucifer dreams.

When he wakes, Michael is watching him, a small smile curving his lips although ghosts lurk in his eyes. “We are not the only ones The Father punished,” he says quietly, his hand reaching up to cradle Lucifer’s face. Lucifer raises a questioning eyebrow and Michael’s smile fades as his thumb caresses Lucifer’s bottom lip. “Eve.”

Lucifer inhales sharply. “You have seen her?”

Michael nods, his mouth quirking upwards in amusement. “She was my wife.”

Blinking in distant surprise, Lucifer wonders if he should feel betrayed. Instead he chuckles. “What was that like?”

Michael leans down and kisses him, then pulls away with a fond smile. “It was interesting. She reminds me of you.”

“Stunningly beautiful?” Lucifer teases and Michael laughs softly.

“Brave. Stubborn. Intelligent,” Michael says, tapping his thumb against the crease of Lucifer’s mouth with each word. “She’s the one who came to me, to avoid a true marriage.” His face sobers. “I do not think she’s had an easy time with her lives so far. Nor is she likely to in the future.”

Lucifer remembers the darkness in his dreams and closes his eyes as the ache where his power used to be burns bitterly. “The Father has much to answer for.”

“The Father was a fool,” Michael murmurs against Lucifer’s lips, his voice dark with promise. “He should have destroyed us utterly.”

Lucifer’s eyes slide open and he grins into Michael’s mouth, fierce satisfaction humming in his veins. “He will regret that decision.”

Michael agrees with a breath stealing kiss and the morning is soon lost to more enjoyable thoughts as they discover new ways to bring pleasure to each other.

When they are sated, they begin to plan.

They travel for many days, avoiding the trails their respective peoples have used before. During the day they hunt to excess, storing meat and preserving the hides and bones for future use, and gather what few edible plants they can. At night they build temporary shelters and work bone and hide into useful objects, then curl up together and explore every inch of each other’s bodies.

Eventually they reach the edges of a forest and begin to work on a more permanent structure using large blocks of snow as they prepare for the winter that is soon to arrive. They continue to hunt and store food, along with dried wood for fire, and work in a companionable harmony that sometimes feels more real than anything, and at other times feels like a distant dream until Lucifer has wrapped himself around Michael and swallowed his very breath.

When winter comes, they are ready, and Lucifer finds himself enjoying the long hours of forced confinement in ways he had never considered before. Their punishment’s sharp edge has been dulled by the new possibilities between them and although their current peace cannot last, he knows they will always find each other again.

He still Sees, and while it is banked, the fire within Michael still Burns. They are not what they were, but they are not merely mortal either, and there are many paths before them.

Winter ends and they are free to wander once more. Life continues, slow and sweet, their days filled with survival and their nights with plans and the warmth of skin. Years pass and Lucifer savors every second, aware such quiet ease of existence will be rare in the lifetimes to come.

When it ends, it ends in pain and the tearing of flesh. They are hunting caribou when they stumble across another hunter, large and furred, with claws that slide into Lucifer’s stomach with the same ease that Michael’s sword used to cleave The Father’s enemies. Michael shoves his spear down the bear’s throat, but it is too late for Lucifer.

He dies with his blood on Michael’s grieving face and broken words of love on his lips. His only regret is leaving Michael alone.

When he wakes he is crying, angry wails his mother cannot soothe.

His people live in a cave on an island, hunting and growing grain. They worship a fertility god and Lucifer is not amused by the realization that he will be expected to take more than one wife once he has proved himself as a hunter. But he remembers what Michael said about Eve’s lives and resolves to do what he can to ease the lives of those chosen to be his mates.

When the time comes to bed his first wife, he makes it clear he does not expect her to do anything she does not want to do. She does want, however, and he awkwardly fulfills his duties, learning the differences between her body and Michael’s.

She is not upset by his hesitance and as time passes they grow more comfortable with each other. She chooses his second wife along with the elders of the tribe and the younger woman’s infectious enthusiasm for life is hard to resist. When his first child is born, he stares at its tiny frame in awe and wonders if the essence that makes him more than human will be passed on.

But his daughter, and later his son, do not seem to See or Feel anything that the other children of the tribe do not, and he is relieved. Eve had told Michael of her life of sacrifice and he remembers his own shunning when he did not hide his differences. Humans are afraid of strangeness, and he would not wish that danger on his descendants.

This life ends more peacefully than his last and he is an elder of the tribe when a wasting sickness claims him.

His next life is his first with a people who use boats for fishing, collecting oysters, and the hunting of seals. It is also his first life with Eve. She is born two years after he is in the same settlement and their instant connection is noticed by their parents and the others of their tribe, who seem bemused by the unusual friendship. He brings her decorative shells and when he is given a dog after his first successful fishing expedition, it is Ásta (“never Eve again”) who names it.

The two of them wandering the area around the village is a common sight and they discuss the things they See, the people they have been, and the lives yet to come. No one is surprised when he presents her father with a bride price a year after her first bleeding and she wears a belt of teeth and shells he crafted when they are bound together.

He is surprised when she makes it known she wishes a marriage in truth, surprised and glad. There is none of the awkwardness there was with his last life and his only wish is that Michael could be with them too.

“Yes,” she tells him, not needing words to know what he is thinking, and he kisses her.

Some of their futures are very bright indeed.

She bears them twin children, both girls, who are doted on. Lucifer frequently catches Ásta watching them with shadows in her eyes and does his best to drive them away, wanting her to have as many happy memories as possible before time once again splits them apart.

They are able to assist their daughters in choosing mates of their desire when the time comes and die within a year of each other, living long enough to witness the birth of their first grandson.

His next two lives are spent alone. He wanders, filled with restless urges he cannot name, and avoids human contact once he has determined the lack of Michael and Eve’s presence in each settlement or nomad group he encounters.

When he awakens in his third body since his life with Ásta, his people are nomads. They live off the land, and off the fruits of the settlements they raid. He does not plan to stay with them, not wishing to join their violent lifestyle when he is old enough, but when he is six, Eve, now Linde, a tiny girl with golden hair and large brown eyes, joins them after being stolen from her village. Two years later, Michael is born.

Their souls burn brightly, a comforting warmth he had not thought he would feel so soon, but his dreams are dark and he fears for what is to come.

He stays as close to them as he is able, and attaches himself to the men who guard the women and children despite his father’s urging to join him in raids once he is old enough to wield a spear and a blade. Michael’s face is cherubic with youth and he follows Lucifer everywhere, a fact the women of the tribe find adorable while Linde smiles with quiet knowledge.

They clash with another nomadic tribe once and Lucifer can see the furious frustration in Michael’s eyes at his helplessness. The attackers are repelled with ease, only injuries received, no deaths, and that night Michael and Linde both slip out of their respective tents to curl into Lucifer’s sides as he sits watch.

“What have you Seen?” Michael asks, his voice baby-soft but his dark eyes glinting with remembered flames.

“Life,” Lucifer responds, his voice fierce as he leans down to brush a kiss across Michael’s forehead. “Life is all I See.”

Michael is silent and Linde hums thoughtfully as she tightens her grip on their hands. When Lucifer meets her gaze, he knows she has Seen something, but does not ask, and her smile is dark and dangerous as she holds his eyes before turning away to stare into the night beyond their camp.

They break camp in the morning and the tribe moves on, more cautiously than before.

Another year passes and the men leave on another raid, against a village rich in copper goods. Lucifer wakes to screams and fire. The tribe they’d driven off has returned while the bulk of their forces are away. He stumbles out of his tent, half clothed with a spear in one hand and a knife in the other. He sees an armed man pluck Linde from the arms of a dead woman and bares his teeth, lunging forward. Something strikes the back of his head and he collapses to the ground, Linde’s eyes burning into him as his vision goes dark.

When he wakes again, he is one of the few survivors. Michael and Linde were both taken and he does not stay to help the others. Instead he gathers weapons, some food, and follows the trail the attackers left in blood, debris, and tiny scraps of fabric from an all too familiar dress.

He finds their camp the next night and kills three of the men, two while on watch and a third who stumbles into the trees to relieve himself. When they break camp in the morning, he can see that they are nervous. They expected an attack, if any, to be blunt force, not shadows in the night. He follows them at a careful distance while they do their best to cover their tracks and does not attack again, instead paying attention to where the captive children are kept and how many guard them.

He doesn’t attack that night. Instead he plans and watches, learning their movements. They begin the night tense, but relax as the hours pass with no further assault. He gives them another day of peace and waits several hours after nightfall, until the men still awake to guard are less observant than they should be.

He moves silent and quick and when the camp wakes to fire and dead sentries, he, Linde, and Michael are long gone, all three clutching bloodied blades.

They do not return to their tribe.

It is two days before exhaustion claims Michael, his small body slumped in Lucifer’s arms while Linde leans against his side, her eyes still sharp as they comb the forest around them for any sign of movement.

“He is not going to enjoy the next few years,” she murmurs quietly, glancing at the slumbering form with a fond smile.

Lucifer shakes his head and sighs. Linde has only two or three years left before her first bleeding and a growth spurt. But Michael’s body is only six years old, and he will be frustrated by his limitations in helping them survive.

“We will manage,” he says as he straightens, smiling as she automatically pulls away and tightens her grip on the flint blade she has not relinquished since she shoved it into a man’s throat. “Let’s find shelter, we need rest too.”

They spend the night in the hollowed out trunk of a fallen tree, a family of rabbits for company. Rabbits who make an excellent morning meal; Michael skinning and cooking them with small, deft fingers while Linde fetches water and Lucifer sorts through their supplies.

After eating, they carefully cover all signs of their presence and continue moving. They keep moving for weeks, until the itch on the back of their necks has faded into a faint twitch instead of a sharp spear point.

They create a home when they find a place safe enough, digging into the earth and building above it with wood from fallen trees. Michael has the sharpest eye for spotting edible plants and Lucifer teaches Linde to hunt. Linde had stolen two ceramic pots from their captors which serve for water storage, and they are all capable of sewing clothes from animal hides when the cloth they ran in begins to wear thin.

In the evenings, Michael carves wooden figures into strange shapes while Lucifer and Linde expand and reinforce their home, and at night they take turns telling tales or singing songs until they fall asleep.

By mutual agreement, Linde and Lucifer do not change their relationship until Michael is old enough to join them and the first night the three of them share a bed without clothes is full of gasps and sighs and surprised exclamations of pleasure as they learn how to fit the three of them together in ways they’ve only dreamt of, and ways they haven’t.

Lucifer watches his lovers sleep, Linde curled between them while Michael’s arms are snug around her small frame and Lucifer’s chest, and allows the flicker of joy in his chest to grow into a full flame. The Father intended only pain with his actions, but he underestimated human resiliency. There has been pain, and there will be more, more than he wants the two souls beside him to experience, but there will also be pleasure and happiness and love.

He watches their chests rise and fall and remembers blood on his hands and the light in their eyes when he found them in the tent with the other captive children. The Father had named him the Bringer of Death and there will be more death in his future. But The Father is not the only power in the universe, and He is not the only being who can create life. One day the sparks lurking in Lucifer’s soul will be strong enough to burn anew and death will no longer follow in his footsteps.

One day they will have a life together that does not have to end.

And no one will be able to stop them then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The chapter title comes from the lyrics "And I have fallen from the sky; In a million multi-coloured lies" from the song Plastic Rainbow by Marina and the Diamonds. Also, I will totally be posting a fanmix at some point for this story because my playlist for it keeps growing. (There is a ridiculous amount of Imagine Dragons on that playlist, fair warning. I'm beginning to thing they're all Marvel fans with how well their music suits the characters.)
> 
> 2) This is going to be set primarily in the Marvel Cinematic Universe with possibly some elements from general Marvel canon as well. I want to include certain things from the comics, but definitely can't use the whole universe as A. they've already included Lucifer and the angels and my version is better (*cough* author bias *cough*) and B. Historically speaking it is iffy as hell and I am attempting historical believability here, ignoring the whole you know, angels and superheroes thing ;).
> 
> 3) The following notes are for any readers who enjoy history nerding as much as I do, since I couldn't resist sharing some of my research notes for this chapter :D.
> 
> A. Thanks to the genealogies listed in the Bible, Biblical historians have pinpointed the Garden of Eden myth to have taken place around approximately 5400 BCE, so that is when this story begins. That is, of course, well after modern humans began moving about the world and forming settlements and such, so that is taken into account in the mythology/history I'm creating here.  
> B. The first village that Eve lives in, and the one that she and Michael spend their first life together in, is the settlement of Eridu, one of the oldest cities in Mesopotamia, and the cultures described are based on what archaeologists have found in regards to the area/time period. The names are not accurate however, as again this is set approximately 2000 years before written language was invented and therefore our records are sketchy at best. So Puabi and Naram are names from that geographic area, but from a couple thousand years later.  
> C. Eve's third life is set in the Zhaobaogou culture of northeast China. Again, records are sketchy, so please take my representation of their culture with a grain of salt.  
> D. Michael's first life after his life with Eve takes place in the Merimde culture in Lower Egypt.  
> E. Michael and Lucifer's first life together takes place in Alaska/Northern Candada with the pre-Inuit Paleo-Arctic tribes. I imply that they build an igloo, and I couldn't actually find how old those particular structures are. Also, the details of things like neolithic procedures for the curing of hide and how they made their clothes are kind of a bitch to find. I can't wait to be at my new University with their giant library *happy sigh*.  
> F. Lucifer's next life is on the island of Malta, with the unnamed culture that first settled there. They did worship fertility figures, but (as far as I know) the polgyny is entirely created by me although many cultures of that era did practice it. (Also, they totally hunted pygmy hippos and elephants and I am so sad those are now extinct cause dude, pygmy elephants, who would not want to be best friends with one of those?)  
> G. Lucifer and Eve's first life together is spent in the Ertebølle culture in southern Scandinavia, one of the few we have more details on, so the mentions of shell/tooth belts and boats, etc., are actually accurate, although again the name is not as old as the culture.  
> H. And then finally the Lucifer/Eve/Michael life is set in Middle to Eastern Europe, no particular culture, and Eve's name is also inaccurate as to time, but accurate as to location (Ancient Germanic.)
> 
> 4\. We only got through like, approximately 400 years of human history in this chapter, and there are still 7000 years to go, so the story will not be continuing at the same pace. I haven't quite figured out how I'm going to work the next few chapters, because I do want to show more of their pre-Marvel lives and I have certain specific plans for time periods/persons in history, but need to speed things up, so we'll see how that goes. Hopefully it won't take me too long and I'll have the next chapter up soonish.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) So, um, lots of warnings this chapter. Please heed the tags and the previous notes detailing **trigger** warnings. In particular the 'Nothing is Sacred' tag. If you've made it this far, I'm assuming you're okay with my deconstruction of Abrahamic Religions, but this chapter gets up close and personal with a negative portrayal of God and the first book of the Torah (and thus the Christian Bible) so consider yourself warned.
> 
> Also, this chapter deals with slavery, a pretty intense death scene, accurate to time period incest, and murder (again, nothing super graphic.) I don't think I'm missing anything warning wise, but if I am, please let me know.
> 
> 2) This chapter took a lot of work, more even than the last one. Between all the research needed, and that annoying real life thing, it took me a good three more days to finish then I was planning. I'm hoping to get the next chapter out by August 7th, which will either be the last chapter before we hit the events of Captain America, or the next to last chapter before that point, depending on how things go. Assuming I accomplish that goal, the next chapter sadly will take longer as I'm moving to a new state and school on the 7th and will be starting training for my new job and getting ready for the fall semester.
> 
> That said, this story is literally the number one thing in my thoughts day and night so have no fear of it being abandoned or left without update for months on end.

**you sang a song that made the children cry**

Humans, like most young races, take great joy in killing one another. (Although it is not only the young who stoop to violence.) His lives on Earth have been filled with such violence, violence he has not always been able to avoid. There is blood on his hands, blood that stains in ways it never did when he was not mortal and neither were his victims.

Those stains are darker and harder to see. The death of an immortal is not a small crime.

But cutting short the life of something as vibrant and brief as a human being is a special kind of wrong, as is the knowledge that as Lucifer he could have breathed the spark of life back into each and every body that has fallen before him.

As a human he can only helplessly watch their souls slip away, to whatever fate awaits them.

This life, three thousand years after being sentenced to this fragile shell (and over a century since he has seen Michael or Eve), is one of the most pleasant he has spent since becoming mortal, despite the lack of either of beings he loves. His people do not kill each other; violence has no place in their culture despite there being more of them in one area than he has seen during his time on Earth.

They import fish and other sea creatures from the coast and cultivate plants: squash, beans, and other edibles, along with cotton for fabric and other goods. Music fills their days and he grows quite fond of his bone flute and the melodies he can create, memories of sounds no mortal has heard.

The city is built around a large pyramid, a towering and impressive structure of giant steps, with other smaller pyramids and temples scattered throughout it. Several deities are worshipped and the belief in powers and beings beyond their understanding is absolute. Lucifer does not know if any of those deities have other names, names spoken in other realms, but he has not felt the whisper of true Power against his skin.

He has Seen things in this life that suggest a few of the priests wield some sort of power, but he does not care to discover the source of it.

He is enjoying the peace.

He does not marry. He spends his days weaving cotton into fishing nets and his nights playing music. He is seen as odd, but it does not bother him. He _is_ odd, after all, and it is rare indeed to live in a society where that fact is not a danger to his life or the lives of others.

He is quite old when he death comes and despite the unending hope that his next life will bring him back to Michael or Eve, he is sad to lose this simple and pleasant life.

He doubts there will be many more to come

As if to prove him right, his next life begins in the middle of a war. His mother gives birth to him as his father falls under the swords of the Akkadian invaders. By the time he can walk, their city is a part of the growing Akkadian empire and any new attempts at resistance are swiftly and viciously crushed.

He is lucky and is trained by one of the temple scribes even though his mother cannot afford to send him to a school. He learns the symbols for Sumerian and Akkadian and how to carve the symbols into clay tablets for record keeping and other purposes, and is relieved he will not be expected to join the Akkadian army in their conquests. Scribes are too valuable to be sent into combat.

He is hired by one of the wealthier landowners near his town, and on his first day on the man’s property he sees Michael. He is a slave and he is being caned in front of the other slaves and servants. Lucifer’s vision goes red with blinding rage and it takes every ounce of control he has to stop himself from getting both of them killed.

Michael’s eyes find his, a rich blue that stands out in the sea of darker colors, and seem to glow with pleasure despite the abuse his body is being subjected to. Lucifer swallows the need to kill and holds his gaze until the caning stops, blood running freely down the pale skin of his back.

Michael does not so much as wince and Lucifer has to hold back a dangerous smile as Michael turns to face the man who owns him without a single hint of pain, or any other expression, on his face.

The landowner frowns. “You will not stop me from enjoying my property again.”

Michael doesn’t blink and Lucifer stiffens at the implication, his eyes catching on a female slave who is huddling with the others, a large, hand-shaped bruise darkening the skin of her upper arm.

The silence stretches and the landowner sneers, discomfort visible in his eyes, as he waves a hand at them. “Get back to work.”

It takes another feat of self-control to not follow as Michael leaves with the other slaves, heading toward the fields. He breathes deeply, reminds himself that he does not like violence, and greets his new Master, listening to his expected duties and focusing on not tearing the man’s throat out with his bare hands.

It takes more patience to make it through this one day than it did to make it through the past hundred years and his skin is crawling with the need to touch Michael by the time darkness has fallen and the others in the house have gone to sleep.

He slips out of the room he shares with another servant and makes his way across the fields toward the huts where the slaves sleep. Michael is waiting for him, standing amidst the stalks of wheat, his head tipped back as he watches the sky.

Lucifer steps into his arms, tucking his head under Michael’s chin and carefully placing his hands on Michael’s lower back, beneath the lacerations that must ache fiercely. They are silent, communicating with touch not words, and for a moment the peace is perfect.

But Lucifer cannot forget the sharp, wet sounds of the cane striking Michael’s back and he places his lips against the pulse in Michael’s throat before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “Why didn’t you kill him?”

Michael’s smile is tired and his eyes are older than Lucifer has ever seen them. “Because if he was killed by a slave, the rest of the slaves would have been punished, if not killed. Not all of them are capable of running.”

He doesn’t need to add that helping the girl escape would have resulted in a similarly broad punishment and Lucifer closes his eyes, leaning forward until his forehead is resting against Michael’s mouth. “So you took the punishment on yourself.”

He can feel Michael’s smile grow against his skin before Michael kisses his forehead and pulls him closer. “You would have done the same,” he murmurs into Lucifer’s ear and echoes of memory send a shudder through him as Lucifer’s hands clench on Michael’s hips.

“I love you,” he whispers, in a language no human has ever used, and Michael pulls his head up for a rough kiss that burns with every year between them.

When Lucifer returns to his room, his body is streaked with dirt beneath his tunic and his hands are sore from how tightly he dug them into the earth to avoid Michael’s wounds.

They have to be careful, more than they have ever been, and it is frustrating to have Michael so close and not be able to touch him, speak with him, whenever he wishes. His frustration is nothing to his fury as Michael continues to be punished for protecting the other slaves when he can, until there are more scars than unblemished skin on his back, which never bows, no matter how much pain he’s in.

Helplessness threatens to choke him and he has never hated The Father more.

The progress of human civilization across the ages has fascinated him but here and now he wants to go back to a life spent in snow and solitude, away from the mortals whose form they share.

At times their punishment has seemed to contain more freedom than their lives as The Father’s weapons ever did, but lives like this make it clear The Father’s decision not to kill them was born out of the desire to cause pain, not out of mercy. Lucifer traces every scar on Michael’s body with his fingers and mouth, carving them into his memory. He intends to repay every second of pain tenfold.

One day a slave comes running up to him while he is marking down the bushels of grain being shipped to Akkad, her eyes large with panic and her breath coming in short gasps. “Please, he said to get you, please come,” she pants out, barely waiting for his nod before turning to run back the way she came, Lucifer close on her heels.

She leads him to the huts where the slaves sleep, empty at this time of day, and waves him toward a door before darting toward the fields. He steps inside the darkened doorway, hands tensed in preparation for reaching for the bronze blade in his belt. When his eyes adjust to the dim light, his hands drop helplessly to his sides instead.

Michael is standing near the wall, staring at the body of one of the men who oversees the slaves. There is blood on his hands and his face is calm.

When his eyes lift to meet Lucifer’s, the depth of sorrow there staggers him and he steps forward, raising his hands to Michael’s face. “You have to leave.” Michael shakes his head and Lucifer understands the sorrow with a wrench of fear and anger. “No, you have to run. You cannot stay here and let them do this.”

Michael reaches up and wraps his fingers around Lucifer’s wrists in a gentle hold. “If I do not, they will kill her instead. I will not allow that.”

Tears and bile burn in Lucifer’s throat and he shakes his head in futile denial. “There has to be a way.”

Michael’s grip tightens and his eyes are fierce. “You can leave.” Lucifer jerks in surprise and Michael’s voice lowers. “I do not want you to see this.”

His rage flares anew and Lucifer holds Michael’s gaze as he shakes his head again. “If you are going to bear this, then I can bear to witness.” The thought of actually doing so drains his anger away and guilt rises up in its place. “It is my fault you–“

Michael cuts him off with a kiss, swift and forceful. “I chose this.” The flames that The Father could not eradicate entirely are burning brighter than they have in two thousand years as he cradles Lucifer’s face in his hands and the sparks inside Lucifer leap in response. “You are worth following.”

Lucifer lunges forward, claiming his lips in a desperate need to feel Michael before he is torn away once again. Michael’s mouth opens beneath his eagerly, hot and wet and just as desperate and Lucifer doesn’t pull away until neither of them can breathe.

“You need to go,” Michael says, his eyes still fierce but his hands soft against Lucifer’s skin. “You need to wash off the blood and find a reason for her to have found you.”

Lucifer does not want to go, does not want to leave him, but he knows getting himself executed along with Michael will hurt his lover more than his own death, so he obeys.

He washes the blood off his face and wrists with a dipper of water outside the hut and resolutely walks into the fields, not looking back. Hours later, he and everyone else of the household are summoned to the front courtyard where Michael stands, bound hand and foot and covered in bruises.

There are two Akkadian soldiers, one standing on either side of him, and they force Michael to his knees as the landowner steps forward, his eyes sweeping over every slave and servant. “This slave has murdered a free man. By law, the punishment for this crime is death.”

The courtyard is completely silent, no one daring to whisper or move. Lucifer’s hands are so tightly clenched into fists that he cannot feel them anymore and dizziness swamps him as the landowner steps back and waves an imperious hand at the soldiers. One of them shoves Michael’s head down, baring his neck, and the other draws his sword.

Lucifer bites down on a scream and does not close his eyes as the sword arcs through the air. They close on their own when the thud of Michael’s head hitting the dirt reaches his ears and the only reason he does not vomit is because he cannot breathe.

When he opens his eyes, everyone is being dismissed back to work and he numbly returns to his room, unable to look at the empty shell lying on the ground. Michael’s soul is gone and he _will_ feel it again. For him, and for Eve, whose lives without them he does not have the strength to think of, he will not give into his grief or his rage.

Not until he has the power to wield them to the ruin of the one who cursed them.

He leaves that night, unable to remain without killing men whose largest crime is ignorance. He leaves and he wanders and he waits for this life to end.

It does, eventually, in an equally senseless act of violence, and his next few lives pass in a distant haze as he cultivates the bitter store of rage building within him and aches with the knowledge that it will be millennia before he can use the sparks brought to life by Michael’s touch.

Patience has never seemed less like a virtue.

It is a long and lonely two centuries before he finds one of his lovers again. He is born to high station, a rare event even with over two thousand years of history behind him. His father is Pharoah and Lucifer, now Merenre, is heir to the throne.

Two years later Eve is born as Nitocris, his sister and future wife.

~

Nitocris watches Lucifer pretend to bask under the attention of their father’s courtiers and hides a quiet smile. He is different in this life. His anger is closer to the surface and when they are alone his smiles are more rare. She has not asked what pain he has experienced in the centuries since they last saw each other, nor has she shared her own.

Some pains are not lessened when they are borne by more than one soul.

Instead they speak of the future, of the things they have Seen, and of the power they have witnessed that does not come from The Father or any of his vessels. She can feel in him the need for freedom, for escape from this parody of living, and has begun to fear what he may risk to bring about that goal.

There are many paths ahead of them, some with more permanent ends, and some with new beginnings, and she needs him to hold on, to wait for the lives that hold the most possibilities.

He catches her gaze and she smiles at him, a real smile. This life is a gift. They are family, they are betrothed, and she is not only allowed but encouraged to spend time with him, learning as he learns the roles they are expected to play when their father’s reign comes to an end.

She intends to use that gift to restore some measure of peace to his soul.

His smile turns real for one shining second before it fades back into the empty curve of lips he shows everyone else, and she directs her attention back to the grapes she’s been picking at in lieu of conversing with anyone. It will not be easy, but patience has always been one of her greatest virtues.

She turns her gaze on the movements of the court, watching the conversations meant to be overheard, and the whispers in corners seeking to avoid attention.

Their Kingdom is fading. She is not supposed to know this, but she learned her lessons in lives far more difficult than this one and she recognizes the signs of approaching death. It began before their birth, before their father’s reign, but the absolute power of the Pharoah seeps away more with every passing year.

Lucifer knows too, but he cares for the minutia of this temporary life even less than she does, so if there is anything that should be done it will fall to her to take action. For now, however, she does not care. The fate of this country, of the dynasty whose name they bear, holds no more interest for her than it does her lover. Let the advisors and priests have the power they can wrest away from the throne, it does not concern her. The future she looks to is long after this Kingdom will fall, and many Kingdoms after it.

When she has seen her fill of intrigue and politicking and flirtations, she catches Lucifer’s gaze again with a coy smile and mischievous eyes and slips away to his rooms, confident he will follow soon. The guards let her pass with faint smiles and she lets her dress fall to the floor as they close the door behind her. She divests herself of her jewelry as she walks across the room and sprawls lazily across the bed, her eyes drawn to the familiar stories decorating the ceiling.

She does not look down when the doors open again, but smiles as she hears his linen robe join hers. Lucifer’s hands slide up her legs as he crawls onto the bed, not stopping until he is hovering above her, his dark, kohl lined eyes blocking her view of the ceiling.

“Bored, are we?” he asks, lips quirking into another genuine smile and she pulls him down so she can taste it.

“I wanted you,” she breathes into his mouth and laughs as his body instantly drops to press hers against the bed. One of his hands trails down her side and her laughter turns into a breathy sigh as he deepens the kiss.

When he pulls away, he is still smiling, a soft, happy thing, and the shadow in his eyes have retreated. “Then I’m all yours,” he says, his voice warm and teasing.

She wraps her legs around him and rolls her hips, savoring the husky groan that slips out of him as his fingers tighten against her skin. “I like the sound of that,” she murmurs, and he chuckles as he kisses her again.

They spend the rest of the day in bed and she takes pleasure in every smile, laugh, and breathless moan she coaxes out of him.

Their life is an easy one. Their father is old already, but still healthy, and shows no signs of turning over the reins of power anytime soon. A state of affairs Lucifer and NItocris are more than happy with.

They are each other’s center. They fulfill their duties, let themselves be seen by the people, speak with the priests and officials whenever they wish, and oversee their father’s interests when he does not wish to travel, but the majority of their time is spent together, in every private corner and moment they can steal.

Most royals are not so in love, particularly in their culture where the Pharaoh’s first wife is always a sibling or cousin, and subsequent wives are also family or chosen based on alliances or need for heirs. On the rare occasion a Pharaoh feels great passion for his wife, she is usually not the one he has been raised with.

They show only appropriate levels of affection in public, but in private they are never not touching, and as time passes, the sharp edges beneath Lucifer’s skin begin to dull and his smiles come more freely.

“They killed him,” he tells her one night, when their skin is still damp from exertion and pleasure. “He was a slave and they killed him and I could not stop them.”

Nitocris tightens her arms around him and kisses his closed eyes, glad in an achingly painful way that he was not there to witness her lives as a slave. “One day we will be able to protect each other. We have both Seen it.”

He laughs into her neck, rough and angry. “I am tired of waiting for one day.”

“The longer we wait, the less He will be expecting us to act,” she says, soft and slow, and he stiffens before raising his head to meet her gaze.

“Vindictive,” he murmurs, a delighted note in his tone, and she smiles with a flash of sharp white teeth.

“Always.”

She does not live for vengeance – she lives for herself and for her lovers because The Father does not deserve to consume her so utterly. But that does not mean she is not as eager as Lucifer for the day their punishment comes to an end and the day they will be the ones holding the power.

The thought of that day keeps her warm at night in the lives when she is alone.

Eventually their father dies and Lucifer assumes the throne. They are not as free to steal moments together and the gaze she fixes on the jostlings of the court is less charitable.

The first year of their reign passes and the fact that she has not borne a child is no longer being ignored. She is visiting with the other women of their family, determining which she is most willing to share Lucifer with in order ensure succession, when half of the Royal Guards escort Lucifer’s vizier into the room. His face is pale but his eyes are gleaming, and she does not believe the shock and grief in his voice when he tells her that her husband is dead.

She follows them to the throne room where Lucifer is lying on the floor, stiff and cold while the royal physicians hover helplessly under the watchful eyes of the guard. Her voice is ice as she demands to know what happened and they explain that an asp found its way into the room and bit Lucifer’s ankle before anyone saw it.

She does not dispute their version of events, but she knows with cold certainty that she should have paid more attention to the maneuverings of the men now telling her she can take the throne until a suitable heir is chosen from amongst the children of her half-siblings.

She should not have let her giddy joy at having Lucifer so close blind her to the mortal dangers they face.

The funerary rites are initiated and she lets them arrange for her ascent to the throne while she watches with a gaze honed by guilt and fury for every whisper and glance that betrays those who had a hand in Lucifer’s death.

She cultivates those who were not included in the plot and makes her plans with the subtlety and surety born of over two millennia of patience. Two months after she is crowned, two months after Lucifer is placed in his tomb, she throws a feast. The only guests are the ones who arranged for Lucifer’s death and she watches the growing fear on their faces with a bland smile.

The first course is served and they dare not refuse to eat, not under the watchful eyes of the Royal Guard, whose ranks have been pruned and increased with care. Lucifer’s vizier is the first to notice she has not touched her food and she allows him to see the vicious glee in her eyes as the guests begin to writhe in pain.

She neither moves nor speaks, but continues to smile until every single one of them has coughed their last blood filled breath of air. After the dying has ended, she daintily steps down from the dais and skirts her way around their contorted bodies. Half of the guard follows her when she leaves and the other half remains to take care of the mess.

The next day she announces that a sudden plague came in the night, a disease that only affected traitors and murderers. The remaining officials are gratifyingly obsequious and she knows no one will dare to plot against her. And if they do, well, she’s learned her lesson. She will pay attention to _all_ the things she sees and Sees.

Over the next year she takes steps to recentralize power and makes it clear who holds the power in the Egyptian court. She chooses a successor, the first born son of one of her half-sisters, and keeps him by her side at all times. Their dynasty will still come to an end, but she has postponed the inevitable and power will not fall into the hands of those who sought their downfall.

One of her final acts is further construction on Lucifer’s tomb. When she dies, her orders will ensure tradition will be broken and she will be entombed with him: two Pharaohs, side by side for eternity.

She does not reign as long as her father, the longest lived ruler in Egypt’s known history, but she dies of natural causes and with the knowledge that patience will bring her to those she loves again.

Patience that is tested as she lives and dies and lives and dies. They always find each other, with a frequency improbable given the number of human beings on the planet (a number she does not know, nor does she think she can count that high.) But that knowledge does not make waiting any easier.

Several lives after her reign as Pharaoh, she is born to a wealthy merchant family on the island of Crete. Their culture has the rare distinction of treating men and women equally, and Rusa delights in the freedom as she plays with her brothers and accompanies her parents to the docks, watching the boats filled with foreigners and their goods with amused fascination. She has lived in skins that look like many of them and an artless whisper in her mother’s ear ensures the Egyptians do not cheat them.

When she has her first bleeding, she elects to join the temple and become a priestess to the Mother, having no desire to marry if she does not have to.

The life of a priestess is a pleasant one. They maintain the temple and present the daily offerings to the Goddess. They perform important rites and blessings, and partake in celebrations thrown by the King.

She enjoys the company of most of her fellow priestesses and one in particular, Kitane, has become the closest friend she has had in any life. (Lucifer and Michael do not count; they are not friends, they are a part of her.)

One night Kitane kisses her, her small deft hands cupping Rusa’s breasts, and Rusa kisses back, swallowing the sound of Kitane’s startled laugh as Rusa topples her onto her bed.

Kitane is not the first woman she has lain with, but she is the first that Rusa hasn’t had to fear punishment for being caught with and Kitane delights in her enthusiasm. They whisper secrets during temple rites and make a mess of the bathing room, holding in their giggles as one of the senior priestesses lectures them about proper, reverent behavior.

“I hope I see you again,” Rusa whispers into Kitane’s hair one night and Kitane looks confused until Rusa distracts her with wandering fingers.

They are preparing for a celebration when the ground begins to shake. A violent wave ripples across the floor and Rusa hears Kitane cry out as chunks of stone begin to fall from the ceiling. She is trying and failing to crawl toward the other girl when something strikes her head and the black emptiness of death pulls her away.

When she wakes she is a Shudra, a member of the servant caste. She is raised, like her parents, to enter the service of a member of the Kshatriya caste, one of the administrators of Kausambi.

There is less freedom and more strictures on behavior she must follow in comparison to her last life, but it is far from the most difficult life she has led and she learns her duties with quiet dedication. Michael comes to the servant’s entrance one day, to deliver some jewelry, and his eyes light when he sees her. She sends the jewelry off with the other serving girl and slips into his arms with a grateful sigh.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, and she cannot stop herself from kissing him, unafraid of being caught.

He is smiling when he pulls away and she smiles back, loneliness banished to another life. “I am Nitya. Are you married?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “A fitting name,” he says and leans down for another kiss. “I will tell my father of the bewitching beauty who caught my eye and he will be relieved. I think he feared that I was tritiya-prakrti and would not give him grandchildren to learn his trade.”

This time it is she who laughs, her eyes dancing as she grins at him. “If only he knew.”

He grins back and she wonders how long he’s been alone, if he’s seen Lucifer since the life in which he was executed for protecting another slave. She does not ask, just pulls him in for a kiss and then shoos him away before either of them are caught behaving inappropriately.

Over the next few months he finds many excuses to visit. When enough time has passed, he brings his father to speak to her father and the proper arrangements are made. The day she goes home with him neither of them can stop smiling and she feels younger than even her apparent age.

Lucifer is not the only one tired of waiting for ‘one day’, no matter how patient she is capable of being, and every life she does not have to spend alone is a precious gift.

~

Lucifer’s eyes on him as he was shoved to his knees had been far more painful than the beating which preceded his execution. As are the centuries without his presence that follow. They find each other once more, briefly, but their lives are cut short by plague and Michael is alone again. After nearly three millennia in mortal form, he still has yet to find an emotion that cuts deeper than loneliness. Even his rage and grief are blunted by the empty spaces in his soul, and it is difficult to form bonds with individual humans who will die all too soon.

He does not give into despair, Lucifer isn’t the only stubborn one, but there are years in which he cannot sleep for fear of the things he will see when he closes his eyes. For all his determination to do the right thing, in this world where what is right shifts with every passing day, he does not know what he would have done if it had been Lucifer, or Eve, awaiting death in punishment for a crime that is no crime.

He hopes he never finds out and wishes bitterly that he had someone to pray to or bargain with as the humans do, even if he knows better than they the cost of such things when they are truly answered.

Finally, he is delivering one of his father’s necklaces to one of the wealthier homes in Kausambi and finds Eve, now Nitya, and feels the cold inside him thaw at the sight of her smile and the touch of her warm skin. He remembers her first words to him and hopes they are still true because he is selfishly glad that she is there with them, that Lucifer is not the only one who keeps the loneliness at bay.

Circumstances do not conspire against them and they are of the same caste and thus able to marry. The night of their wedding she pushes him down onto their marriage bed and kisses him languidly, bracing herself on his shoulders as his hands encircle her waist. “I missed you too,” she tells him with a soft smile when she lifts her head.

He cannot find the words to reply and she kisses him again, allowing him to answer with the movement of their bodies instead. Her bravery still awes him, but by now he knows her well enough to appreciate her intelligence, ruthlessness, and the fierceness with which she loves.

Loving her was unexpected, one of the silver linings of The Father’s punishment, and she is one of the many reasons he will never regret choosing Lucifer over The Father.

Their life together is full of that love, for each other, and for their son, a bright eyed boy whose endless curiosity drives them both to distraction.

“I can never decide if it is easier or harder,” he says one night, as they stand over the bed their son just fell asleep in.

She nods, her eyes happy and sad as she looks up at him. “Harder. But better. When I can keep them safe. When I can’t,” her hands clench and he pulls her into his arms, heart breaking at the images invoked by her words.

He still does not know what he’s capable of if it means protecting the ones he loves, but he knows he does not care if it means keeping that pain out of their voices.

Lucifer’s anger has always been more volatile, quick and loud, but Michael’s burns deep, a slow fire that cannot be seen until it is too late to be stopped. This anger has had a long time to burn, and it will be longer still before it is allowed to rage free.

When it does, the destruction will be absolute.

When he meets Nitya’s eyes again, hers are glinting with a hate so sharp it could cut through stone and he smiles because he does not need visions of the future to see the havoc they will wreak together.

“Patience,” she counsels, her eyes still hard but her smile soft. “I worry enough about Lucifer’s anger; I do not wish to add to my worries about you.”

Michael’s lips quirk into a knowing smile and he nods. “I promise.”

She rewards him with a kiss and he lets her lead him out of the room with one last glance at their son and a silent wish that Lucifer is safe in whatever life he is living. The lives in which he has both of them by his side are the only ones in which he can truly rest.

Their long and happy marriage ends with a racking cough that claims his life within days of its onset. Their son is old enough to have learned his trade and Nitya will be cared for, so it is only the fear of what is to come in their next lives that makes him regret his death.

The next thousand years pass much the same as the last three. There are lives alone, lives with each of his lovers, and one precious life with both of them. He witnesses atrocities and stunningly beautiful examples of what humans are capable of and spends every moment remembering his promise to Eve and refusing to let his imagination paint vivid pictures of what atrocities she and Lucifer might be suffering when they’re not where he can see them.

But the carefully banked rage that has been simmering inside of him since The Father cast them out finds new fuel, and it is only the lack of his angelic powers that keeps him from returning to The Father’s realm and razing it to the ground.

He is born in the town of Jerusalem in the province of Judah while it is under the rule of the Persian Empire. Lucifer is born a year after he is and at first this life seems like it will be one of their happiest. Eve lives in a nearby village, born within months of Lucifer, and they find every excuse possible to slip away from the watchful gazes of their parents and out of the town’s walls to visit her.

Michael’s father is a baker and Lucifer’s father is a woodworker. Eve, now Ilana, comes from a family of shepherds whose sheep provide much of the wool for Jerusalem.

They are aware of the religion most of Jerusalem practices, but they have all lived through many religions and do not usually give them any thought beyond maintaining necessary appearances. When Michael is nine, there is an influx of new people into Jerusalem, descendants of those exiled during the Babylonian occupation, and with them comes a new High Priest and a new governor and they can no longer ignore the faith of their people.

Things change in the city. There is tension between those who never left and those who were born in captivity. Laws are altered and enforced. Michael and Lucifer can no longer slip away to visit Ilana – contact with those who are not Judahites is limited and intermarriage is forbidden.

Non-participation is no longer an option and Michael and Lucifer accompany their families to the temple every Shabbat for readings of the Torah, the sacred scriptures of the Judahites. There are several books in the Torah and the readings follow a set schedule over the course of the year so it is three months before they hear the words that make everything horrifically clear.

Michael’s hands are curled into fists he is hard pressed to hide from his parents as the story of Adam and Eve unfolds. It is all he can do to hold back a harsh laugh as he hears Lucifer’s punishment – ‘God cursed the serpent to crawl on its belly, to eat dirt, and to live in enmity with the woman and her offspring,’ – and his eyes find his lover, whose face is pale with thinly disguised shock and fury.

He barely hears the rest of the reading, his every nerve on fire from the effort of holding still. He cannot slip away from his family until the next day and Lucifer meets him by the gates, both of them slipping into the fields maintained by the farmers of Jerusalem and hiding themselves amongst the stalks of barley.

Lucifer is silent, unusually so, and it is Michael who cannot contain himself. “These Judahites, they used to be the _Israelites_ , Soldiers of God,” he chokes, his fists clenching against the hilt of a phantom sword in his hand, blazing with unnatural fire. “Someone, somewhere, is laughing at us.”

“We'll make Him _eat_ that laugh,” Lucifer says viciously, staring up at him with eyes gone nearly black with rage, and Michael shivers with a combination of excitement and fear.

“He did this. He could not stop Himself from meddling and He–“ he stops, too angry to form words. Hearing the calm recitation of such a twisted version of their lives, of Eve’s brave choice and The Father’s benevolence in creating the humans and despairing of their wickedness – it makes him sick, bile burning like acid in his throat as pain lances through his temples at the effort it is taking not to scream his rage to the uncaring heavens.

“He is not the only one,” Lucifer says quietly, after the silence has stretched between them with all the things they cannot say. Michael slumps, propping his head on his knees, and waits for Lucifer to explain. “Some of the other beliefs we’ve seen, the other gods: I think some are like The Father. I think this is the new form of war between The Others.”

Michael’s fingers dig into the dirt below them to steady himself. “What does that mean for us?”

Lucifer shrugs. “For now? Nothing. But later,” he meets Michael’s gaze with a slow smile that gives Michael the sudden urge to laugh. The Father should never have risked leaving them alive. “Later it means we may have allies in our vengeance. Or at least distractions we can utilize.”

Michael nods, anger coalescing into something hard and bitter and controllable as he pushes himself to his feet and holds out a hand to Lucifer. “We need to find Ilana, and we need to plan. We are not staying here.”

Lucifer takes his hand and lets Michael pull him up. “It will be dangerous. We are still too young.”

Michael does laugh this time, a cold, harsh chuckle that sounds utterly wrong coming from his child’s mouth, and bares his teeth in a rictus of a grin. “We are more dangerous than anyone we will meet.”

Lucifer’s eyes widen for a moment, but he grins back, his hand squeezing Michael’s tightly. “That we are.”

When they find Ilana and tell her of what they learned, she does not look surprised. When they question her lack of anger, she shrugs and gives them a weary smile. “I Saw this. When I bit into the fruit, I Saw what He would do. I did not know it would take this long, and I do not know what it will be mean, but I knew we would become the evildoers.”

Lucifer looks shocked, clearly wondering why she never said anything, and she kisses his cheek as she reaches out to take both of their hands. “It does not matter. He failed. Because of us, He failed. And anything He does now will only add to His reckoning.”

She is right and Michael pulls them both into his arms, fiercely grateful once again that The Father was foolish enough to leave them alive, and with ties that would always bring their souls together. Despite the anger he can feel coiling tightly beneath Lucifer’s skin, his grin matches Ilana’s as they look up at him and Michael laughs again, a joyous sound.

They are far more dangerous than they appear, and with the two of them by his side there is nothing they cannot accomplish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The chapter title comes from the song Cover Up by Imagine Dragons. 
> 
> 2) One of my research notes I wanted all readers be aware of: the Michael/Eve life is set in India during the late Vedic age and the reference to tritiya-prakrti is not a reference to homosexuality, although it could encompass homosexual behavior. It means 'third nature' rather than 'male nature' or 'female nature' and could refer to people with male bodies, female bodies, or intersexuals. There is a lot more to it, so I encourage you to research it for yourself (ancient cultures could be, in a lot of ways, more progressive about gender than we are in the modern world and it's a pretty fascinating research topic.) 
> 
> 3) Okay, and now onto the other history notes you only need to read if you're curious about the ridiculous amounts of research I'm putting into this story :D
> 
> A. Lucifer's first life is set in the Norte Chico civilization in ancient Peru. It was the oldest civilization in the Americas and one of six in the world that developed independently. It's also highly unique in that no traces of warfare have been discovered and it appeared to be a very peaceful society. I couldn't resist using it since most references to ancient American civilizations focus on human sacrifices and 'savagery', which was actually practiced basically everywhere in the world at one point or another.  
> B. As referenced in story, his and Michael's life together takes place during the Akkadian Empire, in an unspecified city in Mesopotamia. The culture, including the slavery details, are as accurate as I could make them given that my primary research tool is the internet.  
> C. Lucifer and Eve's life takes place in Egypt, obviously, and Nitocris is a possible actual historical figure who ruled during the last years of the Old Kingdom, who would have been the first female Pharoah, but who has been deemed more likely to be mythological/or the result of mistranslation in recent years. In the original myth, she committed suicide after drowning most of the conspirators against her brother in a trap. I think my version's better :D  
> D. Eve's next life is in Minoa, which really did have a pretty decent civilization if you were a woman, although I couldn't actually find any reference to whether homosexuality would be tolerated as their language is one we haven't had much success with translating.  
> E. Michael and Eve's life together is set in India during the late Vedic period. Nitya means always or eternal in Sanskrit.  
> F. And then finally we come to the life in Jerusalem, set during the reign of either Darius or Atraxerxes I (archaeological records vs. biblical records make that time period a bit confusing and there's a lot of debate over specific timeframes and details). That one was the hardest, for obvious reasons, and I did my best to be as accurate as possible to the culture. That one section took ten times as much research as the rest of the chapter. But, if anyone familiar with Judaic history catches an error, please let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) So first of all, I am so, so sorry this took forever and a day to update (in direct contrast to my author's note on the last chapter; I am the _worst_ ) and I deeply appreciate every comment and kudos I've gotten during that time. The good news is that A. it is now summer for me and my free time and energy are therefore like, ten times what they have been, and B. There is only one more chapter to go before we hit Cap 1, and things will proceed at a much different pace then because research is going to suddenly become so much easier and so much less time consuming.
> 
> 2) Some of you have mentioned in comments the possibility of gender changes from life to life and I wanted to explain why I haven't (and won't) do that in this story. I am deeply, deeply passionate about gender, and spend a whole lot of time reading/researching/discussing it both on an academic level and a personal level. So if I had included that, this story would have quickly turned into a treatise on the social constructs of gender, and gender politics, and power, and how much I absolutely hate gender as it exists, and it would have stopped being a story that is also, hopefully, fun to read for more than just anth/soc majors.
> 
> That said, I have deeply appreciated all of the offers of help and suggestions for this story. I have never had so much involvement from readers in a fic, and I am loving it. 
> 
> 3) **Trigger warnings** for this chapter include human sacrifice, bloodletting rituals, additional references to non-consent and forced marriage practices, continued negative views of Christianity and the Abrahamic God (along with some others, very few religions get off lightly in this story), and yeah, I think that's it. Please let me know if I missed something.
> 
> Enjoy!

**_you cannot change what you do not own_ **

Artapana, once known as Michael – a name given to him by a Creator he despises – stands at perfect, respectful attention as his king speaks. Behind his stiff posture and shuttered eyes, he calculates the years since he last touched one of his lovers. Years that have stretched him tauter than a bow string.

Is he the archer, waiting patiently for the right moment to strike? Or is he the arrow, subject to the will of another before he can act?

Darius still speaks, words of glorious victory, and Artapana swallows a sigh. Rulers need to motivate their soldiers, he did so himself when leading The Father’s army in countless battles. But the fate of this army and this war hold no particular concern for him. The lives of his companions hold no more value than the lives of those soon to attack them, only familiarity gives him cause to value their existence more, and he is tired.

Tired of death, tired of killing, but tired more of living in constant transition, as ephemeral as the whims of mortal rulers.

An Immortal in name – and bitter truth though none of his fellow soldiers know it – the life of a warrior is one he never wished to have again. Not until that war is against The Father and the lies He propagates.

The king’s voice rises in a clarion call and Artapana represses a crooked smile. Persians hate lies more than any other evil and revere truth as holy. If they did know the truth of who he was, they would seek to join his cause.

Assuming they did not turn on him for his deception of identity.

Darius finishes and Artapana joins his fellow soldiers in shouting their approval, ten thousand voices raised in a paean to the violence soon to come. It rings hollow to his ears and he feels none of the thrill he sees reflected in his companion’s faces. War lost its joy long before he was forced into human form.

Their king leaves to speak with his advisors and the soldiers disperse to their fires and bedrolls for the night. Artapana slips away and goes down to the river, seating himself on the bank for a rare moment of quiet before the campaign begins again. A playful breeze cools his skin and the stars are bright overhead, familiar points of permanence that soothe the ache of constant temporality. The stars have shifted since he took his first mortal breath, but they are his most faithful companions other than his lovers.

His skin prickles with warning and the stars flicker, his gaze momentarily shadowed. His solitude ends with a wash of alien power that tugs at the flames kindled in his soul, burning stronger with every passing year. He turns his head and sees a human form, neither male nor female, sitting on the damp earth beside him.

“Hello Michael,” the figure says, gaze distant with the faintest touch of curiosity and tone flavored with amusement. “I had not thought to ever see you as one of _my_ Immortal soldiers.”

Artapana grimaces, his tongue curling in distaste. “I do not bear that name any longer. Nor do I belong to anyone.”

The being laughs, a rolling sound akin to an earthquake. “I think that is untrue. There are two who own your soul, just as you own theirs.”

Artapana’s lips twitch and he nods his concession to The Other’s words without concealing his wariness at this unexpected interest in his existence. He will not argue with the being’s definition of ownership – he doubts any of The Others understand love, devotion, or loyalty that comes without price.

“Surely you did not think you were not watched,” the being says with a sharp smile. “The Father’s most foolish mistake has been carefully tracked by all of those with the wisdom to see the seeds of his downfall.”

Artapana does not allow his expression to register even the slightest hint of emotion or thought. “And why should such interest matter to us? We have no reason to love any of The Others, nor have any of you offered aid against our common enemy.”

The being dips Its head, smile turning wry. “And why should we offer aid to those who may become a threat to us someday? However much we might wish The Father’s downfall, we must look to our own futures lest we repeat his mistakes.” 

Artapana snorts, lips twisting disdainfully. “And so the difference between us is revealed. We do not seek power for power’s sake. We wish freedom, for ourselves, and for anyone else who seeks it. We are only a threat to those who oppose that desire.” His smile gains a jagged edge, his gaze burning with just a touch of his inner fire. “Do you oppose that desire, Ohrmazd?”

“The Father should never have cast you down,” the being murmurs in lieu of responding. “Such dangerous weapons should never be given a taste of autonomy if one wishes to keep them biddable.” Artapana’s jaw tightens and Ohrmazd laughs again, a sound with no amusement in it. “Have no fear, oh dangerous one, I have no quarrel with you or yours, nor any desire to try and wield you as The Father once did. As for the rest, ask your farseeing friends what the future holds, for I know not.”

The smile Ohrmazd gives him with Its last words imply that the truth Its followers are so devoted to is not fully in evidence, but Artapana nods, not interested in arguing the point.

“And Michael,” Ohrmazd says, clearly relishing the name. “One’s identity is not so easy to change as one’s name. Once a weapon, always a weapon.”

Then the being is gone and Artapana is left staring across the river, his fingers digging into the clammy earth as the memory of every being who has ever fallen beneath his blade fills his mouth with the coppery taste of blood. 

Archer or arrow?

He grimaces and stands, wishing Lucifer or Eve were here so he could share the encounter with them. Wishing for the comfort of their arms around him to leech away the hatred poisoning his soul.

The stench of death lingers in his nostrils as he falls into his bedroll and his dreams are full of blood-stained battlefields and corpses whose eyes gleam with accusation.

Once a weapon, always a weapon.

The words ring in his ears as the army marches to cut off the rear supply lines of Alexander’s army and tension rides his body every step of the way. They easily retake the town of Issus, populated only by the injured left behind from Alexander’s army, and he turns away in disgust as Darius orders the regular troops to cut the hands off the enemy captives. He does not know if he’s imagining the sound of rumbling laughter, and his sickened anger nearly drives him to suicide by desertion. Only his awareness that this is the least of atrocities committed by men in the name of war, and the fact that his people are the defenders, not the conquering hordes, keeps him from breaking ranks.

If he is to die, he will die in battle, in hopes of preventing such atrocities from befalling the innocent civilian populace of the towns that will fall beneath Alexander’s ambition.

The wait for Alexander to receive news of their attack and muster his forces to respond is more unpleasant than usual, and despite their anticipated superiority of numbers, Artapana senses only death in the air.

Nor does he believe it is only his pessimistic despair. He does not have his lovers’ gift of Sight, but the parts of him that are not human and never have been are troubled.

Scouts bring news of Alexander’s approach and the battle plans are communicated to the soldiers. Artapana and his fellow Immortals are to form part of the core surrounding Darius in their army of a hundred thousand strong, most likely double that of Alexander’s forces. 

Artapana feels no optimism at the thought of their might.

Darius is not the coward the Macedonians paint him as, but he lacks the fierce charisma of a man like Alexander. The Persian people have been through too much turmoil in the past century and their will and unity are at a low ebb compared to the ambition driving their enemies.

They are all tired.

He keeps his thoughts to himself – he will not damage the faith of the soldiers around him, whose deaths will not be nearly so temporary as his. They gather behind their emperor, joined by the royal cavalry and Greek mercenaries hired for their skill. It is a rare battle that can be planned so precisely ahead of time and the soldiers are restless, stamping feet and hands clenching on weapons, by the time the enemy is sighted.

Artapana’s ambivalance toward his life and this battle fade away as the clear, single purpose mindset of impending violence takes over, sweeping away his doubts and fury and leaving almost peaceful clarity in their wake. His breath comes slow and steady and his muscles ride that perfect edge of balance and poise, ready to strike at a moment’s notice as he studies the oncoming army.

The enemy falls into formation across the river and the stilted formality of the moments preceding chaotic violence draw a bitter chuckle from his throat. The arbitrary customs of battle have rarely seemed so pointless, and he wonders how many eras of humanity he will live through before such staggering losses of life are no longer viewed as normal. Wonders if he will ever see the last of war.

A cheer rises up, shaking the ground with the force of tens of thousands of voices, and the enemy charges across the river toward them, some falling to piercing arrows only to be trampled by the living tide of human violence. 

There is no more time for thought, for bitterness, only the pounding of his heart in his ears and the bite of his sword as it cleaves through body after body. A charge of cavalry, led by Alexander, rushes the knot around the king and Artapana forces his way through the fray toward him. If Darius falls, so will those who follow him. 

Sharp pain stabs through him and he hits the ground, a spear through his back, tasting dirt and blood and the bitter relief of defeat. He sees the king turning his horse away from the charge and his eyes close as the wall of battle shatters.

He is not the only one defeated. 

Death does not last and all too soon he is alive once more; two more lives of pointless violence follow, and then he is a helpless infant once again. It is disorienting, even after all these years, to be trapped in such a small and useless body, and his frustration turns him into a cranky and difficult child. His mother, a peasant near the northern edge of China, is far too patient with him and Chen Yun, as he is now known, is consumed with guilt once his anger has had time to fade into a cold and patient pit in the bottom of his stomach. 

Forming connections with mortals has only grown more difficult with every passing age, and the detachment that separates him from the humans around him increases his guilt, and his fear.

He does not wish to be like The Others. 

He does his best to be helpful and when he is ten, soldiers bring news that Qin Shi Huang is now Emperor of all of China. Their village is near the broken remains of what was once a wall and soon there are soldiers and laborers from near and far working to build it anew and connect it to other walls to line the entire northern edge of the empire.

Chen Yun brings water, mud, and stones to the workers until he is old enough to join the building crews himself. It is back breaking labor that has already claimed many lives, the stones and mud steeped with their blood. It claims his as well, with an unfortunate fall and a more unfortunate landing that gives him just long enough to wonder with sour amusement if any of The Others, or The Father, are watching before blinding white pain steals his breath and releases his soul.

Centuries pass, births and deaths and lives that hold little to no meaning with the few bright exceptions including one or the other of his lovers. He has always been more patient than Lucifer, though never as patient as Eve, but he feels like a river stone, worn down by years of pressure until it is harder and harder to summon emotions that are not rage and grief and restless despair.

He is not sure what will be left when his patience runs out.

His name is Vitus the next time he sees Eve, and her lips quirk in affection and amusement when he introduces himself to her while his mother and her father discuss the details of an arrangement to transport the wine his family produces.

She reaches up and cups his cheek, careful that their parents are distracted, and smiles with quiet, pain-born wisdom. “Life is still worth living, Vitus, even a life such as ours.”

He leans into her touch and does not disagree, not now, while the warmth of her presence patches up the ragged wounds in his soul. Her touch healing the cold and empty spaces that echo with the taste of beings who have long forgotten emotions other than ambition, assuming They ever knew them.

Life is worth living, for her and for Lucifer, and he can bear all the pain that comes between for the moments when he is theirs and they are his. They are his humanity and he will cling to them as long as he is able. 

Never a weapon again.

~

Nearly seven centuries have passed since they learned of The Father’s deceptions and the world has changed. The Hebrews and their ways had not spread to any other cultures, nor were they interested in doing so – theirs was an exclusive religion and despite the anger she and her lovers feel over its existence, they recognize its limitations.

Limitations that have now been circumvented. Three centuries ago a new cult sprang up, around a Christ figure, co-opting the religion, and God, of the Hebrews for their own.

At first it seemed the fledgling faith might die, ground to dust by the Roman Empire before it could flourish. But her very existence, the love she shares and the beings she shares it with, are proof of how adversity can intensify growth and strength. Mere decades before her birth as Prisca, eventual wife of Vitus, Christianity had been officially recognized by the Roman Emperor.

And now, now it has been declared the only faith, and she does not need her visions to know that it will spread like wildfire, like a plague, until her original name is synonymous with temptation and the downfall of humanity. Until Lucifer has become the very incarnation of evil and the scapegoat of every sinner who wishes to escape personal guilt.

She manages a smile for Lucretia, who told her the news in tones of hushed excitement when they ran into each other at the market, and bids her farewell before the storm building within her can crack the façade. She leaves, unable to purchase goods and chat with other oblivious mortals without bursting from her skin. She makes her way to one of the side gates of the city, head raised high and lips curved in a serene smile that invites no conversation.

Only when she is outside the city, walking down the wheat lined road leading to Vitus and their home, does she allow the mask to fall, her hands curling into fists until the wicker basket she carries breaks her skin. She curses and drops the basket, stopping at the side of the road and closing her eyes against the rising tide of red before it can consume her utterly.

The hair on her skin stirs with warning and her eyes snap open as two figures appear, one on either side of her, both regarding her with faint smiles and fathomless eyes.

On her left stands a man with olive skin, long brown curls, and dark eyes glittering with laughter. Ivy leaves poke out from beneath His curls and a golden serpent winds its way up the shell of His ear. He smells of wine and earth and the curve of His lips makes her want to laugh and scream and dance as she burns Rome to the ground.

On her right stands a woman with bronze skin and a cap of dark, mahogany curls. She is tall and muscular and Her eyes glow like the moon. A sword is belted at Her hip and in Her smile one can see the answers to mysteries long unsolved. It is She who speaks, as She hands Prisca the basket of cloth she’d dropped. When Prisca accepts it, she finds her palm has healed, through blood still stains the handle.

“He seems to have won this time, doesn’t He?” She asks, Her voice the sound of iron being shaped on the forge.

Prisca smiles, her voice softer but no less strong. “He will not win forever; that is the curse of immortality.”

The man laughs, a sound dancing at the edge of madness. “The Father always was an overconfident bastard. I look forward to watching him fall beneath the feet of his greatest creations.”

“You enjoy watching anyone fall,” the woman tells Him, Her smile broadening with amusement and He bows in Her direction, His body forming a graceful arc that brings to mind the curve of a vine when the grapes grow heavy and ripe.

“Just as you enjoy causing those falls, my dear.”

They smile at each other and Prsica wonders, with no small touch of impatience, when The Others decided to start introducing themselves. And why. So she asks: “Why are you here?”

They turn to look at her, eyes no longer warm but cool and calculating, and the woman speaks again. “Your power, of course.”

She refuses to flinch, or show any other sign of fear. “And what is my power to you, who are gods in your own right?”

They smile, the same smile, and the man laughs again. “So you have not Seen everything. I think we shall not tell you then. Maybe you will not See until it is too late.”

Prisca’s stomach tightens as rage and dread bubble in her veins. Damn them, and damn The Father, and damn her too for giving any credence to their words.

The woman frowns, but does not speak, and then they are gone.

What has she not Seen? What lies in their future that is so important as to warrant ominous visits from The Others?

What do they fear? She may not See everything, but she is sure of this. They were afraid.

Of her.

The rage and dread are still there, but another emotion, bright and sharp, is gaining ground and she smiles as she resumes walking toward Vitus and their home. She intends to be worthy of that fear.

When she reaches their villa, Vitus is in his favorite part of the garden, digging in the earth with his fingers to pull out the unwanted plants, and she watches him for a moment, smiling at his obvious pleasure in the task. 

He turns his head and meets her smile with one of his own, warm and glowing with the happiness so absent when she first found him in this life. A smile soon replaced with a concerned frown. “What happened?”

She sinks on to the ground beside him and clasps their hands together, staring down at the dirt coating her dark skin where blood stained it not long before. “I was visited. By Bacchus and Minerva.”

His hands tighten on hers and she meets his gaze, watching shadows bloom in the green surfaces of his eyes. “What did they say?”

One corner of her mouth curves up and she snorts. “Nothing. And a lot of things. And one thing I found particularly interesting.” Her smile flickers before widening. “They were interested in my power. Our power. And they were afraid.”

Vitus’s face is dark but his fingers are gentle as they caress her palms. “They should be. If they do anything to you or Lucifer for your power; I will not rest until they are dust.”

She kisses him, savoring the burn, and raises one hand to touch his cheek. “We are not the only ones with power.” He manages a smile, leaning in to her touch, and she kisses him again before pulling back. “Now we just need to figure out what about that power has The Others nervous. And how we can use it.”

His fingers trace her cheekbones, leaving smears of earth, and she can sense his doubt, and his hope before he rises to his feet, pulling her with him. “First, let us bathe; I had water heated. Then we can plot.”

She laughs and follows him into their home, eager for the feel of his naked, wet flesh against her own. They have time to plan, it is the one resource they have no shortage of, but their time together is far more rare and far more precious.

Despite the encroaching presence of Christianity, their life together as citizens of Rome is a pleasant one. There are no more unexpected visits from various deities and their time together is spent in peace and pleasure, working in the vineyards with their servants and spending warm afternoons in their private garden, the breeze cool against their heated, naked flesh.

They visit the new temple in the city on occasion, partaking in holy days to maintain connections in the community. On one of these visits, art commissioned in honor of the Emperor is displayed, an ivory representation of the Archangel Michael gifting him the Imperial seal. She and Vitus are hard pressed to hide their amusement, and underlying bitter rage, at the stylized figure that looks nothing like her lover.

She does wonder at The Father’s decision to maintain Michael’s reputation in the writings of this new religion. Is He seeking to create division between Lucifer and Michael? If so, he will be disappointed. If there’s another reason, well, it is beyond her understanding, but she will not forget.

They do not ignore the hints and warnings they have received, but neither do they dwell on them. It will take yet more time before any answers become clear, and, frustratingly, there is not much they can do other than remaining patient and observant.

The ailments that come with age claim her first and as she fades, she wonders what would happen if The Father or another deity tried to claim her soul. She has not Seen such a thing in any of their futures, but she feels unease at the possibility. The time between lives is the only time they spend entirely unaware, and for the first time she fears that someone or something will attempt to take advantage of their weakness. 

Their greatest protection might be The Father himself, and the antipathy between He and the other powers who seek influence in the mortal world. Powers that might see her and her lovers as the best chance of ridding themselves of The Father. As well as the fear and interest the three of them seem to be inspiring. After all, The Father did _not_ destroy them utterly, and she, Lucifer, and Michael can’t be the only ones who suspect that is because he _could_ not. 

Despite her fears, she is born into a new body with no sense of interference, and grows to adulthood without any sign of another power taking an interest. She is a child of nomads again, but this is no small wandering clan. The Huns are an empire, if an empire on horseback, and their territory grows by the day. Like the other women of their people, she cares for and guards the herds and children while the men ride into constant battle. When she is married, she sews adornments into her husband’s clothing and is glad he, like the other men, is rarely by her side. 

It is not a bad life, as lives without her lovers go, but even she grows tired of being patient, tired of bearing children only to outlive them, tired of performing wifely duties for men who are kind at best, and well, she chooses not to think of the worst she has experienced at the hands of other humans. Such memories cannot be kept close in a life as long as hers, not if one wishes to retain their sanity.

She dies in a nasty fall from a spooked horse and wonders at the symbolism as she chokes on her own blood.

When she wakes, it is to a new culture, and new gods, who demand blood and sacrifice from those who serve them. It is not the first such life she’s lived, she has _been_ a sacrifice, but in this life she can sense the influence of beings who have no actual need for such things and are merely amusing themselves. It is infuriating.

As a member of the royal family, if a relatively unimportant one, she is expected to participate in bloodletting rituals. The pain does not bother her, she has and will suffer worse than the piercing of body parts in order to release blood, but she fears that _her_ blood might give actual power to The Others who have chosen these people.

There is no sign that any of Them has taken interest, and by the time she has her first menstrual cycle and will be expected to participate in fertility rituals (she is not looking forward to the bloodletting involved in those), her fears of another encounter have faded.

Her anger has not.

Two years later, she is attending a ball game and sees Lucifer brought onto the court, smile bright and vicious as the crowd cheers. The ache in her chest when their eyes meet is far more painful than any needle and she wishes that her blood did have power, power enough to bring the world to its knees. Power enough to stop _all_ pain.

She chokes off a hysterical laugh, knowing that such power would make her far worse than any of The Others, and bites down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. 

It will not be the first time she watches one of her lovers die, but someday will be the last. That is enough, has to be enough.

For now.

~

Ikan, once known as Lucifer, was not surprised when he was captured. He has never been able to bring himself to fight well in mortal form, not unless he is defending one of his lovers. He feels guilt over the fate of his companions, but no more than he would have felt over the deaths required to save them.

It is all so wasteful.

The fury that has not left him in over five thousand years is banked, overlaid by weariness. His lives on this Earth are still outnumbered by the years he spent as one of The Father’s tools, but they weigh heavier. It is hard, now, to remember a time when he was loyal, when he could not _feel_ as he feels now, when he did not know the touch of his lovers or the fierce pain of seeing them suffer.

It is harder to imagine how many more years must pass before they are free of The Father’s curse.

Rage that is not allowed to burn free can destroy its host.

Ikan knows this, and bares his teeth in a grin that makes his captors flinch as they lead him and the others through their city, living symbols of victory.

They are taken to a temple first. Their wounds are bandaged and they are bathed, then dressed in ceremonial gear. A morbid part of him appreciates the ritual, the show, of what is coming. There is a strange sort of dignity in being sacrificed this way, even if those being honored by the sacrifice are as bad as The Father who made him and cast him down.

He misses his life in a culture that had no need for violence, no need for sacrifice. Someday, he hopes to live in one again.

If necessary, he will create it.

They are paraded to the ball court, cheers greeting their impending death. Ikan’s eyes, and attention, wander from the spectacle and he sees Eve in the stands, sitting near the King. Her face is still and smooth, but her eyes are bright with helpless rage and he smiles for her, a baring of teeth to communicate all they cannot say.

He is forced to look away when the game begins, but the edge of his smile does not dull and the enemy players falter away from it despite their knowledge that he has no hope of victory. The game is rigged; the prisoners’ ceremonial clothing offers no protection against the heavy rubber ball, and their wounded and weary state is no match for the well trained savagery of the team they are pitted against.

The drumming reaches a fever pitch when they are declared defeated, again, and then they are forced to their knees as the priests approach. Ikan remembers another life, another name, and the fury and grief that choked him as Michael was beheaded. He closes his eyes and wishes with all his might that Eve does too, that she does not add this to the horrors they have all seen, and knows he wishes in vain.

She, like them, is far too stubborn and strong for her own good.

He is first in line and he is grateful, right up until the blade slices into his neck and then he isn’t anything at all.

When he is someone again, life is quiet and peaceful. His family are farmers near the Samye monastery in Tibet and while their empire knows war, it does not reach them. The monks fascinate him. The religion they practice is the first he has seen that involves no gods, and no violence of any kind.

The monks are kind, and wise. One of them, Tenzin, befriends him after taking note of his interest in their practices, and smiles with sly warmth whenever Ngawang reveals more than he intended about his knowledge and intelligence.

“The greatest wisdom is seeing through appearances,” he says one day, when Ngawang steps on a sharp stone and swears in three different languages, none of which a peasant farmer would know.

Ngawang stares at him for a moment, and then laughs. “See the truth, and you will see me,” he responds, voice light and affectionate, and Tenzin smiles benignly.

“Let us return to the temple and I will tend your injury. Then, perhaps, we can discuss history?”

Ngawang nods, accepting the shoulder Tenzin offers as support, and smiles at the ground. It is good to be reminded of the beauty of humanity. The potential of these mortal forms that had drawn The Father to Earth all those years ago; a potential he wishes to protect.

The end of this life comes with peace as well, only tainted by regret at losing a rare friendship. He has never encountered the same soul more than once, other than his lovers. But perhaps Tenzin’s faith is truer than most, and he may yet see his friend again.

It is nice, to have hope for things other than freedom.

He is born to a family with traditions, and secrets. Christianity has proven quite destructive, and not just to his temper. The druids are among those who have been rooted out and forbidden by the pervasive faith of The Father, but they are not quite as gone as most believe.

Officially, the men (and less officially the women) of his family are fili: poets, bards, and wise advisors to the noble families of the túatha. Unofficially, they still commune with the gods and goddesses that predate the Christian faith, and perform rituals that are spoken of only in hushed whispers and never where a monk might hear.

Cináed Ó Seanaigh does not share the faith of his family, he believes in only two beings and he doesn’t have to worship from afar, but is darkly amused at the defiance of the Christian faith that has consumed so much of the world. He enjoys learning the tales, songs, and poems of their people, and has a knack for creating new ones that earns him praise. He has to be careful that his advice isn’t too prescient, it is no longer safe for fili to be seers as well as poets, but his wisdom is valued.

He has been safe before, despite his oddities, but he has never been so appreciated for who he truly he is and what he can contribute to his culture. It is a heady feeling, and he wants more of it. He forces himself to imagine his lovers teasing in order to keep his ego in check.

He is standing in a hidden grove, alone in the moonlight and peaceful silence, when She appears.

Her face is young and old and everything in between, and Her voice is the wind, a soft gentle breeze with all the potential of a raging hurricane. “We are not all like The Father. And none of us are pleased with his ambition,” She says, with no preamble, and smiles at the look on his face.

“You’ll pardon my skepticism,” he says dryly a moment later, and She seems more amused than anything else at the lack of question in his words.

“I would expect nothing less.” Her presence shifts, weighing heavier, and Her eyes are endless pools of white. “Your potential is dangerous.” He stiffens and Her smile widens, revealing sharp teeth. “It gives me hope.”

He does not understand. Neither the words, nor the warning behind them. But he nods anyway, and tucks the memory away for safekeeping. Perhaps the others will See more than he does.

She is gone before he can blink and he feels a vicious twist of envy at the freedom and power The Others wield so casually, and so carelessly. There was a time when he could travel between realms as easy as breathing, when his power could create marvels and breathe life into them. Nearly six thousand years has passed since that time, but the ache of his power’s absence has not faded. 

Before being brutally molded into mortal form, he had not experienced a childhood. But he had experienced newness, a time as close to innocence as possible for a creature such as he was, and during that time his two constants were his power, and Michael’s presence. He still has Michael, a shining beacon of _home_ , but even his lover cannot ease the pain of missing such a large part of him. 

And while he knows Michael also keenly feels that loss, for his lover it is more about missing the power to protect, than missing a chunk of his soul. The power to create was and is a rare and treasured gift, and the feeling of it singing inside of him is one memory that will never fade.

He leaves the grove and returns to his life and crafts other songs, songs that can bring laughter and tears, but not life. His life ends in a Viking raid he did not foresee and he laughs when he is old enough in his next one to realize that he is now a member of the clan that killed him.

If it wasn’t for Michael and Eve, he would find human loyalties very hard to understand.

Hugleikr finds Michael and Eve together. Eve’s parents are petitioning the Jarl to settle in their town and Michael is an orphan they’ve adopted. Their eyes glow when they see him and he hides a laugh in his mother’s shirt. The ache of their absence is filling with joy, and other losses no longer register as anything other than distant pain.

Eve is now Vigdís, and her father is a blacksmith and her mother is a shieldmaiden. They adopted Aðalsteinn when his parents were killed in a battle across the sea.

Hugleikr spends every moment with them he can, and wishes that his parents were not farmers. They are freemen and respected, but his duties are with them on the farm, and he does not accompany his father to town as often as he would like.

Vigdís is training to be a shieldmaiden like her mother, and Aðalsteinn is learning the trade of his adopted father. As they grow and assume adult responsibilities, the sight of Vigdís sparring, her eyes gleaming with unbridled joy, or Aðalsteinn pumping the bellows, arms slick with sweat, are enough to make his breath catch and his mouth go dry with wanton desire.

His parents are not oblivious to his wandering eyes, and a marriage is arranged with Vigdís. It would be a happier occasion if Aðalsteinn had not been betrothed to the daughter of the shipbuilder. Their culture is rather unconcerned about sex, and who you have it with or if you choose to invite another to join you in your marriage bed, but not marrying and bearing children is worthy of shunning or exile. 

They discussed leaving, living on their own as they have done before, but Vigdís insists they stay and they do not argue. It is not perfect, but they are happy, and they are together, and that is enough.

The rush of frozen, vicious power wakes all three of them, Vigdís and Hugleikr bolting awake and staring at each other with dread as the sparks burning in his soul reach out for Aðalsteinn. They arm themselves swiftly and push their horses to the breaking point to reach town and the other third of their being. Hugleikr is unbearably grateful that Vigdís has not yet borne any children as shouts of terror reach their ears.

There is blue light that aches with the same cruel power and the air is so cold that his sweat freezes on his skin. The screams of the people, his people, fleeing from the frost giants are echoing in his skull as is the soul-tearing sound of ice shattering, broken bits of human beings littering the ground.

Aðalsteinn in swinging the large hammer he uses at the forge, each blow against blue skin ringing through the air. The metal is glowing with heat, and Hugleikr knows it is not from the always banked fire in the smithy. They are not what they were, but they are not mortal either.

Vigdís is fast and deadly, her sword matching the gleam in her eyes as it cuts through the air, and Hugleikr has to force himself to stop watching their beauty and join the fight himself, a blade in each hand as he cuts through bodies far stronger than his own. 

There is an echoing clap of thunder and then they are not alone, surrounded by ranks and ranks of warriors in armor and golden cloaks. It has been a long time since he has seen the Asgardians, long enough that Odin was still a child rather than a King. The Asgardians are not like The Others, they are closer kin to what he and Aðalsteinn once were. He does not actually know who is older, his memory does not stretch that far. Aðalsteinn might know, he was the first of The Father’s weapons.

The battle rages on, but the tide has turned against the Frost Giants, who would have overwhelmed he and his lovers given enough time. There is a pause in the fighting, Hugleikr leaning against Aðalsteinn’s side as they watch Vigdís decapitate wounded enemies, when an Asgardian with dark skin and glowing golden eyes stops in front of them and nods respectfully.

“It is an honor to fight with such wise and ancient warriors.”

Aðalsteinn smiles and returns the nod while Hugleikr wonders what the Asgardian sees when he looks at them. “I am glad to have witnessed Asgardian protection, not all are so concerned with the welfare of mere mortals.”

The Asgardian smiles, a slow and knowing curve of lips. “It is lucky then, that they have the three of you to care for their future.”

Aðalsteinn does not speak, but nods again, his eyes dark with curiousity and other things, things they have all felt as they discussed the actions and words of The Others they have seen.

The Asgardian raises his golden sword in salute, and then returns to the battle, making his way to Odin’s side as the night sky lights up with colors few mortal eyes have ever witnessed. Soon they are gone, the Frost Giants fleeing to their home realm and the Asgardians following, leaving only frozen corpses behind.

Vigdís joins them, her head tilted up to watch the sky, and Hugleikr closes his eyes, breathing in the lingering taste of power. If it is lucky for the humans that he and Aðalsteinn were cast down, then he intends for it to be very unlucky indeed for those who seek to meddle with or harm the mortal realm that has become their home.

They are not what they were – they are not weapons – but they will fight for what is theirs, and their blood and pain has claimed this mortal realm. 

No one will take it from them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The chapter title comes from the song Red by Sara Bareilles
> 
> 2) On with the research notes!
> 
> So jkbat helpfully pointed out that I didn't actually screw up the dates, due to the reverse ordering of years in BC versus AD which I totally spaced on this chapter. So yeah! Go me!
> 
> A. Michael's first life takes place in Persia during the reign of Darius III during the time of Alexander the Great's conquest of a good chunk of that part of the world. Specifically, it is set during the lead up and the actual Battle of Issus, in 333 BC (and we're getting to that nice part of history where there's lots of information about these things). Artapana means protector of truth. Ohrmazd, also known as Ahura Mazda, is the highest spirit in Zoroastrianism, the primary religion of Persia during the reign of Darius III.
> 
> B. Qin Shi Huang united China in 221 BC and began construction on one of the first incarnations of the Great Wall. Chen is a common surname in China, taken from a particular region, Yun means cloud.
> 
> C. His final life and Eve's first life in this chapter are set in the Roman Empire during the reign of Theodosius I, who declared Christianity the Empire's sole religion. Vitus means life and Prisca means ancient. The carving mentioned is one we've only found half of, the half depicting Michael, and is actually believed to have been part of a Diptych representing Emperor Justinian receiving the Imperial Seal (a couple hundred years later than this is set) but the dates are in doubt and I couldn't resist including it.
> 
> D. Eve's next life is set during the reign of Attila the Hun and his conquest of much of Europe and Asia, the cultural details are as accurate as I could make them, given that basically all of our historical information about the Huns was recorded by their enemies.
> 
> E. Her final life and Lucifer's first life in this chapter are set in the city of Palenque, in southern Mexico, which was part of the Mayan empire at the time. Mayan royals did participate in numerous and regular bloodletting rituals as part of their religion (and yes, that included the genitals, the blood from which was considered particularly potent, especially for fertility purposes for the land and the people.) Human sacrifice wasn't nearly as large a part of their culture as it was for the Aztecs who followed them, but it was practiced in several different circumstances, including the ceremonial ball games. Ikan means star.
> 
> F. Lucifer's next life is set in Tibet, during the time it was the united Tibetan Empire (approximately 700-1000 AD). Tibetan Buddhism became the official state religion in 779 AD, the same year that the Samye monastery was founded. Tenzin means holder of the teachings, and Ngawang means powerful speech. "See the truth, and you will see me," is attributed to Buddha, while "The greatest wisdom is seeing through appearances," is part of a longer saying attributed to a Buddhist teacher from a couple centuries later, so again forgive me for some fudging of timelines.
> 
> G. Lucifer's life as a druid of sorts is set in Northern Ireland. After Christianity came, the druids were essentially wiped out by how thoroughly it took over, but there is some evidence that they continued in secret. The fili were an elite class of poets that lasted until the Renaissance. The conflation of the fili and the druids is mostly my own, there's not much written about the druids from trustworthy sources. Cináed means born of fire, and Ó Seanaigh means both descendant of Seanach, and wise. The goddess is a reference to the trio of goddesses known as the Great Queens, Badb, Macha, and Morrígan.
> 
> H. And finally, with our first glimpse of Marvel canon, their last life is set in Tønsberg, Norway, believed to be the oldest town in Norway, around the time of the Frost Giant incursion seen in the beginning of Thor. Notes about culture are as accurate as I could make them, gleaned from my own research and the brilliant show Vikings which I highly, highly recommend (seriously, Lagertha is the Queen of my soul.) Hugleikr comes from two words meaning "heart, mind, soul" and "play". Vigdís means war goddess, and Aðalsteinn is derived from two words meaning "noble" and "stone".
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the Heimdall cameo as much as I did :D


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